Little Children
by therosenpants
Summary: "These pretty little children... they will never be truly yours." / Five cellars beneath the Paris Opera House lives Death and his Living Children. Christine, Raoul, and a new makeup artist are entrapped by this strange family's story. Will Erik ever be the father they deserve? E/C; E/OC; R/C; R/OC. A family saga. Leroux with mix of ALW, Kay, & original interpretation.
1. Prologue: A Matter of Time

AN: This story has been revised and rewritten from the (beginning) of a story I posted on my old account, rewrittengirl. I decided that since I rejoined the Phantom community, I'd continue the story! This will be a very lengthy multi-chapter fic. Please Enjoy!

Update 3/20: This prologue has been mostly rewritten. Parts of the next chapters will also be rewritten, as my writing style has improved since the last time I wrote content for this story (which I had only edited for the first publication). Hope you guys will take another look! :)

* * *

 **March 1871**

There was a pale girl, with a strong jaw and hair braided in gold, who held tightly to her father's hand as they passed by devastation.

Paris was burning, at least as far as her small eyes could tell. She walked closely huddled to her violinist, his calloused hand offering her comfort as they made their way across the streets under the watchful eyes of guards. Beyond the cloudy sky, she could see birds flying to victory, away from smoking roofs and harsh cries of orders. She marvelled to herself at how birds could always find their way home, even through ashen skies.

Her father coughed beside her, and she looked up at him from underneath her little green bonnett. He wiped his beard with a kerchief, stuffing it into his pocket as he pulled her under the awning of a small shop, miraculously still open during this dark time. The place sold bread and cheeses, and he spent the last sous he had, dug from the little pocket in the front of his coat, for a slice of both.

"Christine," he began low as they walked back to the outdoor café to sit. He folded the cheese into the bread and put it in her hands, speaking to her in Swedish. "We will have all the breads and cheeses the world can offer once Madame Valerius returns home from London."

"Yes, papa."

"Do you know why she's in London, _min kära_?"

"Because she's bourgeoise, and the Commune people don't like that."

He knelt beside her, hugging her close and tickling her ten-year-old cheek with his whiskers. "Now where did you hear a thing like that?"

"Raoul told me before we left Perros. His brother said that they had to go away to London too, so they would be safe. He said bourgeoise means swine to some people. Is Mama Valerius swine?"

"Oh, no! Of course not! Bourgeoise… It just means that she can take care of herself, that's all. So can Raoul, and his brother. And we'll take care of each other."

Gustave Daaé held his daughter close as she ate her bread and cheese.

Soon they began to walk again, hand in hand. Christine licked the crumbs off of a set of fingers. "Tell me a story, papa."

"Which one do you want to hear?"

A bird flew by, this time close to the pair. She watched as it landed on a lamppost, where a cloaked figure and two small creatures huddled in the chilled weather of March before the door opened to warmth.

"The one about the Angel of Music."

"Ah, I knew you'd pick that one. Do you know that Mozart received the Angel of Music, Christine?"

"He did?" she said excitedly as she looked up to him.

"Indeed! Right there in his cradle! He was touched with grace the moment he opened his eyes. The first thing he ever heard was music."

"Was it the Angel singing to him?"

"Yes, sweet one. The Angel knew that he would be one of God's greatest instruments, but it also knew that his life would not be long. So it went to him, still crying in the bassinet for his mother's milk, and gave him the gift of song so that he may not waste any precious time without it."

The little girl, as she listened, looked back at the where the three figures were. The street was empty now. "But I didn't hear the Angel of Music when I was a baby."

"Oh, but you will, Christine. You see the Angel doesn't come to everyone when they are little. It comes precisely when it is most needed."

They arrived at their hotel, a shabby place that had only a cot for a bed. It was all they could do until the Valerius house was no longer occupied by the Commune. That night, as Gustave sat next to his child in bed, he sang her the dearest lullabye, wordless but perfect to her little ears. As she began to sleep, he turned an unbraided curl around her cheek.

"Christine, you will hear the Angel of Music someday. When I am in heaven, I will send it to you."

* * *

Nadir Khan hadn't slept in weeks, and it had _everything_ to do with the Paris Commune.

His complaints where three-fold. First, he had not been able to leave his flat for some time, and he was beginning to achieve new levels of cabin fever, which he surmised was driving his stone-faced servant Darius up a fine damask wall. Second, he was fearful for his life, as though he held international immunity there was no telling what rules a rebel government like the Commune would and would not follow. And lastly… his newest obsession, the delicate French _macaron_ , was sorely missing from his life while _Ladurée,_ the bakery which sold them not two blocks from his door, was closed down during the siege.

Reason said he should be more worried about his _life_ than never tasting a macaron again, but a former Persian chief of police couldn't be picky about where his will to survive came from, and those pastel pastries had been getting the better of him since he'd stumbled upon the mint colored shop edifice several months prior.

As it stood, he was laid out lazy and pensive on the divan in his small living room, a fire crackling on the hearth and a plate of scones in his lap. They were a poor substitute for macarons, but there were far too many left over from his Muslim committee meeting several days before. He had hosted, in his cramped living room, like the fool he was- though it was better to let others be more foolish by leaving _their_ homes than he leaving his. He was starting to feel the effects of age, and he had no business risking his life now that _Erik_ was no longer a part of it.

His ears burned to think about him. It had been two years since he last had contact with him. The moment he'd come to Paris he could feel as though the very air was controlled by the movements of that mysterious man, and sure enough, Erik had found him and smuggled him into an opium den disguised as a more civil hookah lounge, where the ghoulish man had accosted him with displeasure. They had come to an agreement, eventually, that Nadir would not intervene in Erik's life as long as he continued to lie low and keep to himself. Any flagrant displays of his many "talents" would incur Daroga's retired wrath, and as much as the old trickster adored being a nuisance… a change had certainly come over him at the time. He was more subdued, more inclined to agree that any behavior resembling his former notoriety should be snuffed.

It had not escaped him then that his friend's reluctance had as much to do with his loneliness as it did his survival. Nadir thought he should seek out those solemn eyes once Paris had calmed. Invite him for tea, a game of cards… He had not worn his mask at that last meeting, instead opting to hid his disfigurement in layers of makeup and a false nose. Perhaps this meant that he was adjusting to a semblance of normalcy after all.

Nadir had been thinking of Erik when his eyes finally started to close, a scone half eaten in his hand and his breathing evened out to a smooth rigour.

He felt the first fuzzes of sleep overtaking him when suddenly the pounding of the oak door bolted him upright, the tray nearly clattering to the floor if it hadn't been for his protective hand on its metal handle. He whipped his head toward the banging, causing a terrible ache in turn. _Sugar deprivation,_ he told himself. The knocking didn't stop.

"Darius!" he cried, shifting his aching legs over the side of the divan and gripping the side of his head. He set the scone tray to the side. His manservant appeared, with a neutral frown and clean linen folded over his arms. "Go out there and tell them again- the Commune has no business here, I am protected by the Persian government!"

Nadir's palm swallowed his careworn eyes. He heard Darius shuffle to the hall and open the door, and in a clear voice he said "I do not know you, sir, and it is late. Kindly leave my master alone."

Another _bang!_ slammed into the door, and the devil spoke of himself: " _I am not the bloody Commune! Daroga of Mazenderan, come and meet me!_ "

The gentle ache that had settled in his temple sharpened into an Erik shaped migraine. So much for thinking he'd "adjusted."

"Don't make such a ruckus!" he called out. Before Erik could barrell into his house like a maniac, Nadir forced himself quickly into the hall, taking his cap from the rack and setting it on his head, to cover his early balding (or perhaps the throbbing vein at the top of his forehead).

When he caught sight of a very much masked Erik in the stairwell of his building, his immediate thought was that those fiery eyes had been dragged kicking and screaming from the fields of Persia. This was not the reserved gentleman who had found him two years prior, but rather the one he had long sought after in Siberia. His posture, set coiled like a cobra, was alert and defensive, as though even a look from Nadir would set off the spring. The Persian feared for his throat.

But suddenly, though his gaze was certainly locked by Erik's, a little voice of laughter broke out and blushed his cheeks. A _child's_ laughter.

"Is that a ferret on his head, papa? How peculiar!"

Nadir's eyes dropped down, where shrouded by Erik's billowing cloak and behind his knobby knees, two pairs of hands and two sets of eyes dipped curiously into the light.

 _Allah help me,_ Nadir gasped to himself, his eyes flitting from Erik to the tiny children gripping his gloved hands.

Erik gripped the girl's shoulder and shook her abruptly. "Not now, _ma petite_ …"

The abundance of color in the Persian's face was draining. "Erik," Nadir began with slack jaw and chilled spine. "What is this? Whose _children_ are these?"

That slender smirk, peeking out from underneath the mask, was one of impatience. He was familiar with that look. "You heard the girl. She called me 'papa' did she not?"

Daroga gazed long and hard at the demon who tapped his feet impatiently on his doorstep. He looked down at the little foreheads that barely reached his kneecaps, and at their sallow little lips. Thin, gangly, but untouched by God's wrath: two equally dainty noses on two smooth, thick-skinned faces. The idea that Erik produced them seemed absurd, even uncanny. It was winding him. "If I find these children have been taken from respectable parents, Erik-"

He started to push past Nadir, pulling the children along with him, but a resolute hand stayed him. Erik's glittering, reflective eyes disappeared briefly in a roll. " _Excuse me_ , Daroga, but the Commune just ransacked our home, and your little _international immunity bubble_ ," he said in Persian with a mocking pitch, "is the only damn place I can think of that isn't occupied. Kindly save your accusations for another time."

Inside they all went, breezing past Nadir with a draft following them. The man shuddered, though cold air from the hall was not the only cause… He shut the door reluctantly behind them.

"Master," Darius spoke up behind him. His face, usually stoic, held the faintest traces of terror. Nadir had mentioned Erik to him when he signed on to be his manservant at the outset of the Daroga's emigration, but it was apparent he should have included more… _particular_ details about the quality of Erik's person.

"Gather the leftovers from the committee meeting and bring them into the living room for our guests," he said. Darius dashed off immediately after his customary nod, and for the moment he was alone, Nadir summoned up his courage to enter his den.

The monster had quickly rushed those angels to the fire, where the girl curled up to her knees immediately. The boy, who had not yet spoken, sat down slowly beside her, as though he was afraid he'd lose his balance. Nadir stood silently in the doorway, although a small smile could not be tamed in his face. When the boy settled into a small crouch, he began sucking his thumb.

"What have I told you about that?" Erik said breathlessly in French, batting his hand away. He sat behind them and took off his cloak, wrapping it around their small bodies. He continued to address him in Persian, a language the children could not understand. "Imagine! Late March in Paris, and it might as well be Siberia. You would think with the amount of buildings they are burning the city would warm!"

Nadir was shaken out of his trance. "I-I have hardly been outside these past weeks. Darius tells me-"

"They cannot touch it… they _won't touch it!_ " Erik interrupted. Nadir couldn't figure what "it" was, even as he whispered variants of the phrase repeatedly into the fire.

The Daroga sat numbly beside them on the lounge chair, content to observe while he processed the scene before him. The little girl held out her hands as an adult would, rubbing them together and smiling with pleasure. Erik stroked the boy's dark curls, his other arm wrapped around him to hold him close. Nadir heard him singing to them quietly, his long arm patting the girl's head every so often.

What a sight! In all his years of knowing this man, he had never known him to hold another human being this close, never even _function_ properly with mention of physical affection. He recalled their reunion in the streets of Paris those two years prior, where Nadir had attempted a kind of friendly embrace and he'd vehemently recoiled from the gesture. Now, he held these ducklings as closely as Nadir recalled him holding his most prized possession- his time-worn violin.

"Erik," Nadir said, at a volume only just above a whisper. " _Explain_. You told me you wanted nothing to do with me when I came to Paris, and now you have brought your troubles back to me as though years have not passed. What has _happened_ to you?"

The masked man was quiet until he turned his head, his breathing having returned to normal. He laughed joylessly. "An accident," he said, gesturing to the children. "The stork brought them when I was sleeping. It was punishing me for all those times I said I hated children."

Bushy but groomed eyebrows raised in exasperation. "Be serious!" he demanded, though it was a fool's errand where Erik was concerned. Hands shaking, Nadir leaned over the side of the lounge chair and poured tea from the samovar into his half empty cup from earlier in the evening. He poured another for his guest and offered it to him, who took it without looking up from his babies' forms.

"Fine," he muttered, gulping down a gracious portion of the drink. The little girl looked up at her father and smiled. He smiled back at her and pinched her cheek gently, though when she turned her head it was gone just as quickly. "1869 was quite a year for me. You and I reunited in that dismal little lounge they had the gall to call _hookah_ \- you know it's been closed now, nearly a year! - and later that night I found out they were my twins. I also finally started to lose my hair. It was only a matter of time-

"As I recall you dragged me to that lounge-" he started, though that little word sandwiched between smart-mouthing caught throat. Nadir downed his entire cup and poured another. "I'm sorry, twins? _Your_ twins?"

He was obviously continuing this charade. The suggestion that the children sitting on Nadir's authentically Persian rug were truly born out of a union between _this_ man - who had denied woman after girl after wife while under the command of the Shah, who Nadir couldn't imagine _touching_ the bare skin of the fairer sex, let alone _kissing_ or _satisfying_! - and a real woman was utterly unbelievable.

"I'm afraid you'll have to prove it to me."

"Of _course_ I will. You will never take Erik at his word will you?" He sighed. In lieu of any real explanation (which Nadir imagined he would never receive, at this rate), he changed the subject entirely. "By the way, this is Astrid, and Nicholas. I did not name them, but I have come to find that they are suitable." He spoke in French, "Astrid, darling, say hello to _oncle._ "

The blonde girl perked up her head from watching the fire, waving a tiny hand to Nadir.

"No, _no_ , didn't I teach you how to greet somebody properly last week?" She rolled her eyes in just the way _he_ had done numerous times over the course of their acquaintance. It was almost uncanny, right down to the way her honey colored eyes shimmered metallic as they finished their orbit.

She took her time standing up, but still gave a decent enough curtsy in her little blue dress. "My name is Astrid, I'm very pleased to meet you, _mon oncle_."

"Very good," Erik said as she impatiently sat back down.

"Uncle?" Nadir whispered with shock in Persian. "Am I family now, Erik? _Really_? "

"What else should I have them call you? _Booby_? _Pea-brain?_ I don't need to like you, but they certainly do."

This last comment made him uneasy. What was this 'they certainly do' supposed to mean? He gave a small chuckle to appease his defensive friend, and joined them on the floor. "And... your son does not extend the same courtesy as your daughter?"

Erik's body stiffened. Nadir could always tell when he had asked precisely the wrong question, and this was one of those times. He pulled the boy closer, the child playing with the red pom-pom on his jacket. "Nicki doesn't speak." His words were clipped, an end to the discussion.

But Astrid filled in the gaps, for both brother and father. "He _can't_ speak, Papa. That's what the doctor said, Uncle."

"Oh… Oh I see," Nadir began, taking Erik's empty cup from his outstretched arm. He maneuvered behind him to the table to refill it, though thankfully another pair of brown hands caught it.

Darius had appeared with a platter of finger sandwiches and scones. This he balanced on one hand while the other took the teacup from Nadir. The Persian flashed his servant a grateful smile, though it seemed like Darius was looking at a ghost, because his wild eyes were locked on the back of Erik's head.

"Ah, yes. I held a committee a few nights ago for my fellow Muslims in the area. These were quite delicious-" Erik spun so that the two foreigners saw his illuminated eyes through the mask in guarded curiosity. Nadir noticed his servant now stood stock still, apart from the tray slightly shaking in his hand that is… "Set the tray by the children, Darius."

The manservant snapped to attention, coming quietly and obediently where the three huddled on the floor. His eyes never reached Erik, who continued to watch him with amused anticipation lurking at the corner of his thin lips.

Darius backed away slowly from the scene to approach the samovar. Nadir's attention went to Astrid, who wasted no time in devouring one sandwich, and then another. She hardly ate like the lady Erik was teaching her to be, but her supposed "father" seemed to be distracted. Nadir heard the teacup rattling against the saucer ever so slightly while he watched Erik take a scone and give it to his son. They both watched as the boy picked it apart, critically examining each piece before it entered his mouth.

Astrid grabbed a scone too and broke it in half, giving the other piece to her father. "Papa, you must eat too," she said. He laughed lightly, placing the scrap of bread between his thin lips and grimacing when she turned her head.

A crash off to the side.

Nadir sat up straight, and then upon seeing his servant quivering behind the table where the samovar sat, he bolted up and went to him. "Darius! Get a hold of yourself."

The younger man-really a boy, who had yet to experience the grievances of a life with Erik in it- pulled his master aside, and Nadir caught the tail end of a trill of baritone laughter. He scowled.

"That is not a man! He is a demon!"

Nadir sighed. The boy's face was ashen, and he held himself without the normal composure befitting a capable servant. It appeared he would have to play parent yet again, to _two_ men who acted like children. At least this immaturity-and superstition- was understandable.

"What did he say to you?"

"H-he… he whispered things… into my ear, like he was behind me! Breathing down my neck! He knew my name… my father's name, and my mother's!" Darius wept openly now, and made signs of warning against whatever spirit was sitting in the parlour.

The Daroga fought the urge to roll his eyes. Erik had rifled through his possessions on more than one occasion, and this particular information was most likely filched on their last encounter, when he and his servant's immigration files were stashed carefully and _supposedly_ secure in his luggage. There was no telling when the man had snuck into his flat and perused without a trace...

"He knows of their deaths! He told me _exactly_ how they died!"

This information was interesting to Nadir. He would confront Erik later, demanding a response to his actions toward this innocent young man. But for now, there were two more important things on his mind, and they were eating his leftovers. "Darius, retire to bed for the night. I can manage the rest of the evening without you. Do not fret… The man will not be staying."

Wiping his eyes with a gold embroidered kerchief he'd fished out of his pocket, Darius bowed as nobly as he could and disappeared into another part of the house. Forehead pulsing, Nadir re-entered the parlour.

"You should be able to afford thicker-skinned servants, Daroga," Erik's voice floated to his ears, though it didn't come from the fireplace. "The Persian government has certainly been paying you enough for the assurance of my death."

Nadir bent by the samovar table and picked up broken pieces of china. His gaze followed the trail of breadcrumbs which lead from the fire to the sofa on the other side of the room. It trailed up the lanky, inky black legs of the enigma before it settled upon the sleeping faces of the children on either side of them. Erik was adjusting his cloak across Nicholas's body, while Astrid was curled into a ball underneath the afghan throw which had draped the back of the couch.

"You know very well my allowance is paltry, you twit," Nadir snapped, placing the broken pieces next to the samovar and sighing. "And it's all because of your godforsaken behind! If I had never met you, I wouldn't be in Paris to begin with-"

"Don't they look lovely, Nadir?"

Against his better judgement, he moved closer to the trio and stood not a foot from their sides. He kept a hand at the back of his neck, _just_ in case.

"They couldn't possibly be mine, could they? Who would believe that?" Erik's arms were folded across his chest, his chin resting in a pensive palm. "You certainly don't."

So. His friend _had_ interpreted Nadir's body language correctly. Times, it would seem, had not changed. " _Why_ did you bring them here, Erik?"

"I told you... our home was vandalized. My bank account has been cut off. The opera… _my_ opera house has been taken over by the Commune."

Nadir recalled parts of their most recent conversation, including the notice that Erik had, in fact, gained legal employment as a contractor of the opera house. At the time he had been grateful for this news… But he could tell this story would not end well.

His lips itched with frustration. Crossing to the mahogany cabinet by the door, he found his pipe and the various blends of plants he smoked from it, contained in little jars labeled in the Persian language. He returned to Erik after having packed the pipe with sweetgrass and tobacco. "So... you were turned out of your home. Then what? Do you expect me to take you in? I could never house _you_ of all people, Erik."

The man rolled his eyes. A trick of light caught Nadir's, and he looked down to see the little girl was still awake, watching her father intently. She giggled and copied his eye movement. Yes, it wasn't too hard to believe based on that little look, and the strange aura radiating from the boy. _Odd_ little children, to be sure. Still… he was not totally convinced, as although he hadn't read of any _kidnappings_ in the papers in the past two years, there probably thousands of orphans which wandered Parisian streets who could easily be plucked by cunning, lonely men.

As if defying Nadir's accusatory thoughts, he bent to shake out the girl's curls and pulled the afghan further over her face. "Go to _sleep_ , child," he whispered with exasperation. She wiggled around to face the couch almost offensively.

 _That attitude,_ Nadir thought to himself as he sucked in scented air from the pipe. _How very familiar…_

Its source of familiarity stole away to the fireplace, where his arms folded across each other on the mantle. His bent posture, where he dug his masked forehead into his arm, resembled that of a question mark. That little notation hung in the air around them…

What plan was Erik concocting in that sordid mind?

He read his thoughts, as always. "I am well aware of our special situation," his voice croaked, still mercilessly beautiful even as it was drained of energy. "All I am requesting is…"

Realization was dawning. Nadir joined him at the fire, passing him his pipe for some sort of comfort. Erik inhaled deeply from it, and and when his lips parted he could see they were chapped. And there, suddenly dripping from underneath the black fabric, were the kind of tears Erik only shed when his heart collapsed. He knew them well.

"You want _them_ to stay here."

Erik responded with choked laughter. "I thought you to be too obtuse to figure it out. My pride for you you, Daroga, is _boundless._ " He shoved the pipe back into Nadir's hands. His deflective sarcasm made the Persian's face heat, with both anger and worry.

"For how long?"

"As long as eternity. Or… until they become adults. Don't try and marry Astrid off, though, she won't appreciate it. She may even strangle you, if she's _really_ my daughter."

Nadir's face was aghast. The worry dissipated, and out came the fury. "If she _is_ your daughter, then you should be the one to care for her!" His voice, apparently too loud, was clamped down by the vice grip of the former assassin. They both peered to the side where the children slept. No limbs stirred. The Daroga, cap askew and fuming, squirmed out of the man's grasp just enough to warble, "You cannot keep relying on me every time you get into trouble!"

Erik's glowing eyes were so close that he could see, for once, the eyelids that encased them - they were raw and red along their hideously sunken creases. His hand left Nadir's mouth, lifting instead to the top of his head, where it shifted his Astrakhan cap into its proper place.

"Do you know why they took our home from us, Daroga?"

Nadir stepped back, although Erik's mechanical feet followed. The yellow gaze would not let go of the green. The other man quietly shook his head.

"I was developing the opera cellars when they found me and my crew. The men under me _fled_ , cowards that they are. I alone stayed to protect all that Charles and I had sweat and bled over. And you know, some _did_ bleed that night…"

The Persian swallowed. Erik's eyes no longer saw him, though they still looked intensely in his direction. He was watching another play, another terrible scene.

"When I returned above, I saw spit, semen, excrement on my marble floors and red paint spread across the bosoms of the Muses. I… I don't know what happened, but more men were upon me, and in the ensuing fight my…." he flinched away from Nadir, as if he were the one inflicting this pain. His fingers reached up and curled over the cheek of his mask. "They saw me. _All_ of me."

He knew very intimately what things they might have discovered about the man. But somehow, he _must_ encourage him. "To me, you are both an eighth wonder and the tenth circle, Erik.* What did _they_ see in you?"

His friend barely registered the half-compliment. "The _freak_ , of course," he spat. He started to pace in the usual way, hands clasped behind his back and long legs stamping on to the rug, as though they were eighth notes composing a new symphony. "I hadn't experienced ridicule like that since before my time in Persia. I would have _killed_ them… if Charles hadn't been nearby.

"They found out who I was and where I - _we -_ lived. Not only was I ordained a blemish on human kind, _as always_ , but I was also discovered to be what they call _bourgeoise_." As quick as he'd been pacing, he crouched down by the fire and heaved heavy breaths. "I had been living in a house my father had built, years before I was born. It has been destroyed."

Erik had never breathed a word to Nadir about his family. This was the first he had ever heard about any father, and the fact that he, too, was a mason colored in another gray area in Nadir's knowledge of Erik's past.

As if hearing the sympathy playing on the Persian's breath, Erik looked up at him with expectant eyes. "I have to disappear again. This time… Perhaps permanently. It was only a matter of time." His ease of words now left his voice lush and soft. Defeated, even. He shifted his gaze from above to behind, landing warmly on the children. "I hope that one day, they may be able to understand."

"Erik, you mustn't-" Nadir started, but a raised hand halted him. He would not, however, continue to be a third party in this one person conversation. "You cannot walk away from it this time, you know. If they really _are_ your children, then you are no longer responsible solely for yourself. I hardly can believe _you_ of all people would consider abandonment a viable-"

"Do not think you can _begin_ to understand!" The masked man would not stay in place. He hopped up from the fire like a grasshopper, hands gripping Nadir's arms and twisting him around to face the sleeping children. His voice, though not above a whisper, was passionate and aggressive. "Look at them! You recall what Erik looks like, do you not? Well! Can you imagine what it would be like to continue on? A certifiable _monster_ as guardian to perfect children? Anywhere we go, they would be ripped from my clutches by citizens of God, of man! If it is impossible for _you_ to believe that they belong to me, _me!_ , then it will be for countless others. They will never know a moment's peace! They will never know the normal, beautiful life I have craved all this time, and yet their faces prove they are destined for it!"

The hot breath seeping into his neck was spiked by tears. The hands, once so hard and cold, fell limply from his arms as their owner turned around. After several seconds of waiting, Nadir turned cautiously to face where he had gone: to the window to stare at the sepia haze of a city practically on fire. He forced himself to quelch the gasp itching to leave his throat.

His back was turned to the children, and the mask was held between fidgeting fingers. More tears slipped down. Nadir had only seen the monstrous face at moments of tragedy, and he was certain that if he were to follow through with this choice, it would be another heartbreak from which his friend would never recover.

"They do not deserve to be taunted for the rest of their lives, as I have. They are not safe associating with me."

Nadir maneuvered as close as an unmasked Erik would allow. "O-of course they need you, Erik." He could not believe he was saying these words! A sane man would never let innocent children be raised by someone so… so… He could still scarcely believe that their angelic faces, peacefully dreaming, had sprung from a demon, and therefore was it his moral obligation to protect them from living in a shunned man's hell?

But if it were true, then Nadir had no business keeping them from their creator. This man who had, for all intents and purposes, risked life and limb to bring them to the safest place he could think of. This man, who clearly _loved_ them. The very idea that his hardened heart had let that emotion inside should be good enough for Nadir. He _must_ trust that this was true.

He lay a gentle hand upon a black shoulder, which crumpled under his touch. "I cannot pretend to imagine how they came into being, but it is clear you _are_ their father, either way. I cannot in good conscience rip them from your arms. That would be..." He came around to see the slope of Erik's hollow cheek billowing out, where hot breath descended onto the window and fogged its glass. " _Cruel_. For them, and for you."

"No… No Daroga! They are meant to be above ground, in the light! Running, playing like good little children. They should never know that their father is made up of death, it would be unkind. I must retreat into the earth, where genuine corpses belong." His tears flowed more readily, as though they mimicked the rain during a storm. His head fell into his hand. "You must keep them safe, for me, _please_! You're the only p-person I… trust."

That was a simple little word. _Trust_. It should be uncomplicated, unmarred by doubt and prejudice. But hearing it from Erik's lips, knowing that his vulnerability rendered it true… He had to pause over his next words, for fear that trust would disappear.

"What about... their mother?" Nadir swallowed.

Erik's spine straightened into an arrow. He shook his head as wiped his sinuous hands over his eyes, replacing his mask as though to erase emotion from his person. It worked, too. He was another man entirely, now.

"She is dead."

He gripped a strained and fidgeting hand against the window pane. Nadir had suspected some such tragedy, though he still could not comprehend such an unholy union. He lowered himself onto the bay seat, pressing his back against the cool glass. "I am so sorry, my friend."

"Don't be," he laughed hoarsely. He rubbed at his chin, contemplating his next words very carefully. "It was raining the night that I met her. That same night I left her in it, wet and cold…"

He seemed to whisper and spit her name at once.

" _Priscilla._ "

* * *

* I looked up what the equivalent of "circle of hell" would be in Islam and I wasn't quite sure how to interpret their system. Since they are speaking in Farsi, assume that this is translated accordingly. I've done a lot of research for this fic but I struggle with the Persian sometimes. Please forgive me.

I love reviews! Please leave me some even if it's just to say "Good job" or "x could use some work". - Rose


	2. Little Star

*revised 4/6/18: minor grammar changes

* * *

 **Autumn 1875**

There were several gold plaques lined in a row on the marble wall. They used to be shimmering tributes- their dates etched with care, figuring into a mural of metallic symphonies. As she waited in the corridor, Astrid tried to scratch away the dirt on the "t" at the end of one name, but a black substance still remained underneath.

She sat up and blew into it, her small cheeks puffing up to their fullest. No effect. There was black crust in every letter of the plaque. Dust had been flung from the floor, and those who cleaned this wall on a monthly basis merely wiped away the surface, without regard for the condition of its birth, or the importance of its names. The dirt was permanent.

Astrid didn't think much of that importance. She read the words "Jean-Paul Renault" embedded in serif and did not pause to contemplate what they meant, as Charles Garnier might have done when he allowed these plaques to be sealed to his opera house. That these names were those of the men and women lost to the three-month Commune of her youth held no significance to her.

Her gold curls were piled into a ratty knot on the back of her head, and she tugged at the blue ribbon that held it closed. Her pale skin showed signs of calluses, on her elbows and her knees, where she would crawl and hide under tables to frighten unlucky crew members. She was smiling because the names, no matter what they meant, enchanted her. She read them and decided she would make up stories about them later, to tell to Nicki when he was scared or bored.

There was a squeak, a sweet little sound that came from underneath the plaques. A tiny nose poked out of a hole underneath, wiggling as it sniffed the air in the lobby. Astrid peeled her stuck limbs from the floor and cupped her hands out, so that the rat climbing into them might reach her frock.

"It took you long enough! I've been waiting for ten minutes!" She slipped him inside of her pocket, but he wouldn't keep still, so she had to tack the flaps together with a stolen hatpin. He would receive a firm talking to when they were done with their mission! "Behave! Or there'll be no cheese, just dried prunes for you for a week!"

Her bare feet scuttled across the hall, deftly and silently. She caught sight of a concierge, a plump young woman with a feather hat, and dove into the nearest entryway. She had to escape the lobby before she was found by _him_!

She passed in and out of doors, until finally she felt wood against her soles. She wove in, around, and underneath everything, from the dancers' skirts, to the prop tables being carried on stage, to precariously balanced and partially drunk stage hands rising to the catwalk on ladders. But she didn't see the diva anywhere!

Ducking behind a curtain when the stage manager hurried near her, Astrid twiddled her thumbs as she held her breath. She did not care if she was caught, but still she was nervous. She'd be satisfied only if the face of the woman was thoroughly amusing after the act.

Astrid jumped when she finally heard the screeching. Covering her ears, she felt the rat scamper in her pocket, doing the same. "Ugh…" she muttered. "She sounds like a hungry cat! How does Papa enjoy music like this?"

After a few moments of unclogging her ears of distaste, the girl peered around the curtain to find the moment was at hand.

"Places!" the manager shouted to the company, knocking on Mme Boucher's door and moving on to the next dressing room. A hustling and bustling stirred behind, and suddenly the diva with no shame- clad only in her corset, stockings, and silk kimono- burst forth from a room that smelled of lavender and incense. Her entourage immediately surrounded her and fawned in her presence, and one brought her sharp-smelling water in a tall glass when she snapped her clawed fingers.

Astrid giggled to herself as she tiptoed around a workman on bended knee, then attached herself to a passing costume rack that would sail her to the target on stage. But her nose, tickled with the feathers of a royal cape, gave a great sneeze and alerted the dresser driving it. A hand pinched her ear.

It was a first rehearsal, informal and noisy. It was not so odd to see a dresser loitering on stage, and this one was her favorite of them all. "Jacques!" she exclaimed as he pressed a finger to his pencilled moustache. They stayed behind as the cast joined the music director at the piano for warm-ups.

"What are you planning, _ma petite étoile_?" He whispered, bending down just as Boucher began her scales. Astrid giggled sweetly, pulling out her partner in crime for show and tell. "Ah! A little visitor! I see… Well, I'm sure she won't mind! She is quite fond of animals." Jacques pulled a mink stole from the rack and wrapped it around the girl's shoulders. Astrid bared her teeth in the most sickening grin of hooligan joy.

They waited with baited breath for the moment when the rehearsal began. When the cast began their exercises, they paid little attention to affairs behind them in the wings. Astrid ordered, quite dramatically, "Take me... _to the Goose_!" The little girl pointed to Mme Boucher and Jacques compiled with amusement.

He positioned the rack not far from the diva, and Astrid climbed out from her spot just as Jacques walked forward to hide her seven-year-old frame. She clasped the rat to her chest, whispering instructions to it, before she crawled under the man's legs and let it cling to the drooping kimono.

Jacques and Astrid stepped backward, inch by inch, as the rodent ascended the garment. "Steady now," he whispered behind him just as Boucher strangled the high "C", and Astrid fumbled back into the clothes rack. Two, three more paw swipes, and the diva felt the creature crawl onto the flush bare skin of her neck. This was when she screamed, and this was when Astrid lost her sense of deniability.

Her laughter pierced the air even as she was called names by Mme Boucher, like " _Vous cul! Vous petite démon_!" Held back by Jacques, the rat squirmed in her grasp. Her fat fingers were squeezing him so that his little eyes bugged, but the man reached forth and plucked him by the tail from her hands.

"Leave her alone, Cécile," he said as handed the girl her pet back. "Learn to laugh at yourself once in awhile."

"But… But a rat! All over my skin!"

Patting his slick back hair, Jacque rolled his eyes and took hold of the rack. "It's not the only vermin you've let crawl over you, I'm sure."

Mme Boucher decided to "faint" at that moment. Her companions crowded over her, fanning her and pouring her more "water" that smelled of rubbing alcohol. Someone picked her up and she very coherently responded, "I'll have your job for this, Jacques! And that girl… I'll have her sent to the workhouses!"

He was wheeling Astrid backstage, and she stood balanced on the metal bar with her cold toes and her hands clasping his side of the rack. "Can she really do that, Jacques?"

"No, Astrid. I have it on good authority she's retiring after this season. There's really no reason for the managers to listen to her, is there?"

She grinned as he stopped the cart. Stepping off, he bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "And besides, what would the opera do without its adorable little trickster?"

"Perhaps work could be done, M LeBlanc."

Dread raced down Astrid's spine when she heard that deep voice, and she stepped solemnly away from her friend. Jacques stared down the tall, enigmatic man who appeared behind her, and crossed his arms. "Perhaps… I suppose you've come to take her home?"

Astrid clicked her heels together, wringing her fingers in the folds of her dress. The mysterious man's hand reached forth and touched her shoulder, ushering her along.

"You are correct, Monsieur."

The girl waved to her forlorn friend as she gripped her guardian's hand tight, entering the flooded light of the Grand Foyer again the same way she had come.

"I'm not sorry, _oncle,_ " she said with defiance, but the man's jade eyes were trained securely on the entrance.

"Are you hungry, Astrid? I will take you to _le Café de la Paix_ , then return home."

"But _oncle_ , I have no shoes today!"

The Daroga looked down and saw the dirt, and the callouses, and sighed deeply. "Of course. I will procure a pair for you, _setareh_." Star. Everyone called her star, no matter what language they spoke. Was it a way to make her smaller, like a pin prick in the sky?

Clearly concerned with the sight of her dusty feet, he picked her up and walked with her, her head resting dejectedly on his shoulder. The girl felt true shame. Her beloved uncle thought her a heathen. Perhaps she was...

' _I suppose this is the straw that breaks the monkey's back,'_ she thought. _'Or is it the wolf's?'_

Nightfall. Uncle had walked her as far as his brave Persian heart would allow, and from then on, Astrid found her own way to the fifth cellar. Even so, her rat kept her company.

She carried with her a knapsack filled with breads and fruits, and a letter clutched in her hands that spelled her doom. He would be cross with her, thanks to this note. He would see her fidgeting and new shoes, ones that made her look like a doll, and show her to her room.

She wished to feel the wetness of the damp floor against her feet, but she'd promised the Daroga she would not take them off until safe in her bed. She did lie a little, certain that she would take them off at the door.

Astrid had memorized the twists and turns of the underground long ago, but it still never failed to enchant her mind. There were bats here and there, whose wings flapped in time with water rushing from the lake. This was where she made her friend, the rat who followed her every time she ran to the surface. She had saved him one night, from a red faced rat catcher who thought she was a runaway from an orphanage.

People called her different things. "Little star," "gopher," "trickster," "urchin" among many. She did not correct them when they assumed she was a vagrant, or a ballet rat, or a lost child of a patron, but she knew that her real identity was _here,_ daughter of the fifth cellar.

That was her home on the lake's embankment, the one that violin music emanated from at that moment. It was Nicki's 'voice'-the only voice he could possibly have. The notes sung over her body as the door came into her sight from across the water. She closed her eyes, leaping onto the surface.

Did she splash? No, she dropped onto the stone steps which traveled between the banks, hidden by half a foot of water from intruders. She danced over the glassy lake, the violin her partner, and she didn't notice when an apple fell from the bag into the unknown.

For a few structured bars she was a lady-in-waiting, in the court of King Arthur, as she bowed to the disguised prince who'd asked for this dance. She circled in small steps, her hand cupping the air and her eyes closed.

A more sultry tone, and she became a flamingo dancer, just arrived from Barcelona. She cracked the letter like a fan and swished her skirt, dramatically dipping herself by an invisible lover. "Olé!" she cried.

And as the pace quickened, suddenly she was a can-can dancer, kicking up her feet and splashing water onto the rocky shore. A shoe flew off as her leg extended gracefully toward the door, and rushing forward onto dry land, she bowed at her imagined audience.

"Thank you, thank you! Oh, you are too kind!" She applauded herself, smiling graciously to the fog.

It was only then that she noticed how much lighter she felt. She opened her eyes and saw soggy bread drifting along the water, with apples, oranges and pears bobbing up and down from the current she'd caused with her dance.

"Ugh…" she moaned, taking the bag off and poking her head inside. All that was left were a couple of figs and a bunch of grapes. She hated grapes.

The feet that once so effortlessly glided as Jesus over the Sea of Galilee stomped to the finish line.

The grand oak door was locked, and she hadn't yet been allowed a key. She dreaded knocking, if only because it would interrupt Nicki's playing, but her little fist pounded on the door before she could change her mind.

The rustling she heard was quick, and it opened to the elongated form of the creator glaring down at her.

"I see we have a solicitor. Tell me, _Mademoiselle_ , are you modelling the latest swim collection for _Maison Laferrière_?" He tutted churlishly as she rolled her eyes. "Not a very polite sales girl, are you? Ah, and what have we here? A trail of crumbs to lead you back to the shopping district?" He gestured to the discarded food. He did not smile.

Her little mouth drove into a pucker, and she ducked under her father's legs before he could catch her. She flung off the other shoe, uncaring where the missing one landed, and strode to the kitchen.

"Astrid!" her father called, though she was quicker than him to slam the door. She set the bag on the counter, shrugging as he opened the door back. "There's no need for that, _mon petit chou_."

"There's no need for mocking me is there, Father?" She said without turning, placing the grapes and figs in a bowl on the counter. "I look just as ridiculous as you do. Weren't you planning to dine at _le Café de la Paix_ with Guy de Maupassant? I would change, if I were you." She referred to the long robe with patches and the tatted scarf that adorned him, causing him to resemble the bohemians of Montmartre more than the elegant gentleman he likened himself to.

"Where on earth did you learn those names, my dear," he said exasperatedly, as if he didn't actually care, stealing the letter intended for him from her hand.

"... Uncle Nadir took me there today… As- as a treat!" she pleaded. "There were dukes there, Father, dukes!"

He read the note quickly. "And pranksters, too, apparently." His glowing eyes narrowed at her from beneath his familiar black mask.

She shrunk without even slouching, because under his gaze she simply appeared smaller than usual. "You should have heard her singing! It was awful, Papa! Believe me, you would have done the same thing."

He shrugged, folding the letter over again and pulling his thumb and forefinger over the crease to sharpen it. "Why yes, of course I would have! But I know I wouldn't have had the audacity to be caught so willingly, _non_?"

"...No."

He reached over her frizzy head and popped a grape off the stem. He ate it slowly, savoring its flavor. "It's a shame that you lost the rest of the bunch. Clumsy too, my dear?"

Yes, an unfair world, clumsy child… She mustn't get caught again… Not pranking Mme Boucher, nor coming home with mistakes swimming behind her. Her face was beet red.

But beneath her father's arm, Astrid could see the grinning face of her twin, and she watched as he mimed their father's movements. He even held his hand on his narrow hip, fanning himself as though his ego were blowing a soft wind. She could not pretend to be grim while he entertained her so. Her voice filled the air with laughter, and Erik- the purveyor of bad jokes himself- knew exactly the cause. He turned and found his son smiling innocently, and back to his daughter, who he caught making a raspberry at his bottom.

"I feel I should send you both to bed _early_ for this behavior. How does _that_ sound?"

Thankfully, his tone had finally changed, and the girl's chest lifted at the playfulness. The twins rushed forward, Astrid immediately bargaining with him and Nicholas kissing his hand dramatically. "Please, my lord, _don't_ send us to the stocks!"

Erik chuckled and bent down, encasing his children in an embrace. "I would never!" He petted and touched their hair, the hems of their clothes, and beneath the edge of the expansive black mask which always covered their father's face, he smiled fondly and lovingly. Astrid and Nicholas grasped at his robe.

"I mean that. Listen to me, children. I swear to the two of you this: you shall never be bound by chains, nor under the stocks, or kept in a cage. Not for as long as I live. _This_ I promise."

Though his voice was soft, comforting and warm to their little ears, Astrid felt the undercurrent of pain in it. One that caused him to say such things, though she didn't quite understand it. Such a promise drew her closer to her father, gripping him tight around the waist. Underneath his dull brown waistcoat she felt his heart beating. All her worry about punishments seemed to be forgotten.

"Now _you_ must promise me something. To be good little children! I must leave to attend to some business. Will you be well behaved and sleep while I am gone?"

"Yes! We promise!" she said, stepping back and clutching her brother's hand tightly. The boy nodded in kind.

"Excellent."

Erik shifted until he had both of them in his grasp, Astrid over his shoulder and Nicholas under his arm. They laughed merrily, one like a bell and one silent as an empty church.

He carried them to their room, where the dim light of a gas lamp illuminated two small beds across from each other, and two little tables where their books and study lay. He rolled Astrid, with much bellyaching, onto her bed, where she bounced twice. Nicholas he set more gently, the boy crawling into a ball while still holding on to his father's hand.

"He wants a story, Papa," Astrid said from her lounging position, like a goddess about to faint. She pulled on her blue ribbon and out tumbled the rat's nest of tangles, then the rat itself from out of her pocket.

"I'm afraid I must be going, Nicki," he apologized, leaning down and lifting his mask veil so that he might kiss the top of his head. Astrid realized, as she looked on at this gesture, that she couldn't recall him ever kissing a part of their skin, only their hair.

He did the same to her, and she stuck out her tongue in defiance. "You'll have to tell him one for me, alright?" She nodded anyway. "Very good. _Bonne nuit_ , _mes petits_ ," he said as he began to shut the door.

"Oh, and Astrid?" he paused, just as she was putting her rat on its little pallet beside her bed.

"Yes, Papa?"

"Don't think I'm finished with you. We will discuss your behavior in the morning."

He was not so languid about the door this time, as he swiftly sent it clicking into place. He left his daughter gulping as she looked at her brother, who was already crawling into her bed.

She held him as they waited to hear their father leaving. It was not a long time, for the iron hinges of the oak door were easy to detect. They each let out a heavy breath, and Astrid started laughing. Nicholas' own eyes squinted in joy.

"It was splendid!" she said. "Just splendid! The fat cow got so red she could have been a pork belly!"

 _Tell me more,_ Nicki's face seemed to say. He bent over her and took her hairbrush from the nightstand, and she turned around begrudgingly. Despite her sulking, he combed away.

"Ow! Well, Jacques helped me get close to her, and Rat knew just what to do. I was- slower!- afraid she was going to squish him afterward, but he's a lucky Rat, after all."

Nicholas tapped her on the shoulder, so that she may understand the question he mouthed. _And what then?_

"Then? Well Uncle Nadir found me, and he scolded me too much. Responsibility, _bla-bla_ , respect, you know. I just told him, _'Oncle, if I respected every person in this opera house, I think they'd be concerned I was possessed by a demon!'_ "

 _What did he say?_

"' _You're just like your father!'_ What else?!"

If Erik had told them to be good, the children didn't seem to think that meant be quiet. They laughed a little longer, but tears were welling in Astrid's eyes from the tugging at her hair, so she let him finish the job.

But there were still tears, even when he'd brushed the last of the tangles away.

 _What's wrong, sister?_ was his look, as he took her hand gently.

"Do you think I really am in trouble? Papa wasn't very cross after all, but what if he changes his mind after going above? What if he hears how angry everyone is? He might… he might send me away to live with Uncle Nadir."

This was a thought that passed her mind often. She couldn't bear it if she left the opera house. A life without exploring the catacombs, scaring divas and running errands, or falling asleep to the sound of her father playing the piano in the next room… She didn't think that was a life at all. Without the opera, she might as well wear pinching shoes every day!

Her mute brother had no concrete answer, only the ability to embrace her. She welcomed it gladly. Through her tears, she held onto to the feeling of making Jacques smile, of the prima donna's screeching, and of the gold plated row of names that made her feel like she lived in a palace.

"Nicki," she began, bringing her brother under the covers with her and settling in for the night. "You should have seen the place Uncle took me to! It was like visiting a paradise on the coast, only it's not a block from our door! There were waiters with shiny shoes and silk ties, ladies with big hats and parasols that matched what they were wearing, and solid gold cigarette trays on every table!"

 _Solid gold?!_ He mouthed.

"Oh yes! And there were famous men there too, actors, writers, painters! Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Charles Garnier, Jean-Paul Renault!" She didn't know their names, really, only ones that sounded important. These were names she'd heard her father say, names on street signs, and dead men on plaques. It didn't matter, because her brother's face lit up in awe.

 _Will you take me there, Astrid?_

She nodded slowly, kissing his forehead and hugging him close. "I promise. I'll take you everywhere. One day, we'll even visit the moon, and bring Papa back some stardust!"

* * *

 _AN: I'm definitely nervous about this fic, because it's hard to write convincing OCs in the Phandom. But so many lovely people have told me to just write what I love, and I love these kids. I hope you will too. They are near and dear to my heart, and I hope you enjoy the ride!_

 _Thanks to rjdaae, littlelonghairedoutlaw, wheel-of-fish, and phantastichomos for the encouragement on tumblr, and for the lovely reviewers of the prologue! Please read and review for more adventures of the Opera Ghost's family!_

 _-therosenpants_


	3. The Unthinkable Dream

*revised 4/6/18: content, grammar, and additional dialogue/situations.

* * *

Astrid tried to whisper these things, because instinctively she knew her father could hear her, perhaps from some supernatural ability. Yet if she'd peaked under the door at the line of light, she would see the shadows of his feet just beyond, several minutes after he made a false commotion of leaving. He would slip out quietly later when he finally heard silence from the other side of the door.

A frequent ritual. It felt sacred to listen, he thought — like he was the priest on the other side of the confessional. Only it was _he_ the penitent Astrid whispered about, and it was his heart that beat wildly as though his sins were being discovered. She did not understand the things she spoke of, and yet he knew how acutely children absorbed the world around them. He had been the same, once… manufacturing stories to pass the time, in the lonely hours of solitude.

Only, Astrid was not lonely, unlike her father's childhood. It was easy to dismiss the boy curled next to her when he did not speak, did not even make a physical commotion in his silent world. But like Erik, Nicholas _listened_ at the grating of his sister's confessional. Or rather, the stories she told wormed their way into his imagination, and thus his son could content himself in the corners of his mind.

Without that companionship, Erik wondered how Nicki would have survived. Was this what a caring sibling did for a wandering mind? Astrid kept him from feeling melancholy, the emotion inherent in both their veins. She kept him from being lost in it entirely, instead enfolding him into a world of her creation.

Their father listened in because he was _jealous._

Who could have kept the melancholy from Erik when he was a boy? He distantly remembered these kinds of whispers — ones he himself ladled into the round window panes of the attic where he was kept. They evaporated, with no other ears to receive them, but he recalled the mumbling motions in his mouth. One after the other, of broken chairs and his mother's looking glass, or of animals in cages taken from the savannas of Africa, unaware that their brothers roamed free. Perhaps music had been his true sister, a spirit of magic who pressed him with ideas and chaos just as his growing mind was stifled by an uncaring keeper.

Perhaps... a real sister might have kept those dreams alive.

Yes, Erik listened at the door, selfishly imagining himself as pure as they were. But he knew what they thought of him. He knew intimately how they half-despised him, how they wondered his true feelings… Or if he was really their father. They _must_ think that since he has never shown them his face. How could they believe it was true?

It was often that he couldn't believe it himself.

He twisted the yellow parchment in his hands, written in Persian and meant for his burning temper alone. He struggled inside, imagining the object in his hands turning into the neck of that damnéd Persian pestilence. Erik kicked the stupid, mocking loafer by his side, and watched it skid softly to the bookcase. He wandered to the kitchen and took the grapes in his hand, squeezing them to bursting juice and throwing them to the wall. They joined the prior damage of punched wood and wine stains.

* * *

" _Thank_ you, Da-ro- _ga,_ for showing my daughter all the luxuries she'll never have!"

He was shaking in the parlor of Nadir's apartment. In an effort to distract his limbs from hovering near his companion's neck, he slammed his fingers on imagined ivory keys in the air as he spoke. The melody in his head was frantic and angry. "I see you, plain as day! You plot and pick and calculate the day you will say 'No more, Erik!' Well I'm telling you, you can't have them, do you hear me? You can't have them!"

The Persian sat silently sipping tea at the small indigo table. His eyes never left Erik's shoes, which were in need of repair.

Erik paced with frantic gait. "Are you listening to me? You make me look like a fool! You make me look like a devil!"

"If that is what you believe."

He whipped around with such a force that his long burgundy coat twisted around his wiry frame. His eyes were ablaze. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" he hissed.

Nadir turned his cup, blue on a gold encrusted saucer, gently in the circle of caught tea before he set it down. A small sigh left the mouth trimmed with a graying beard, and he kicked out the chair in front of him. "Won't you sit, Erik? Your tea will become cold."

His response was to shudder, his body growing tense before he stomped his foot. Like a petulant but fearful child, he sat down. Erik thrust his jaw and ground his teeth, but reluctantly took the cup. He looked at it closely, clear green water with only three or four leaves gathered at the bottom. He huffed with satisfaction. "It's poisoned."

"No, it is not."

"I know your game, Daroga—"

"Not well enough, apparently. Drink it."

Erik looked again at his blue cup. The steam that rose up heated his mask as he gingerly lifted it to his mouth. The flavor that touched his lips startled him.

"My God… where did you get this?"

It was his favorite, near elusive blend of tea, one he'd first tasted on the forest trek to Russia. One made up of honeysuckle moisture and clarifying herbs. One that smelled like his mother's perfume. One he certainly had never revealed to someone as pitiful as Daroga. Or perhaps, over a drunken night in Mazandaran, with three bottles of sherry...? He hadn't remembered, but the ever sober Nadir certainly had.

"Never mind that. Drink more."

"But—"

" _Drink_."

Erik knew that command was final. So they sat in silence, drinking the tea with no name and silently contemplating each other's hidden minds.

And these memories came up to haunt him: a patch of grass where he made sanctuary behind a boulder, until a brave traveler came along and took him into his caravan; the smell of this caravan had the same scents as the tea, only heavier, imbibed within smoke and fumes; the shaking of a tambourine as a gypsy girl danced around him, reminding him too much of one he'd left behind in Germany, scarred beyond belief; the feeling of that moment, where he was no longer alone but felt distinctly lonely; how they abandoned him almost as swiftly as the setting sun, once they'd discovered the curse his presence, _his face_ , might bring upon them.

"How do you feel?"

"Melancholy," he said immediately, in the moment before his eyes returned from the mist. He licked his lips before his smoothly padded fingers rubbed them as if to assure himself of the tea's existence. It was a memory no longer.

Nadir rested his cup dejectedly, his brow turned down. "I thought it might make you calm."

Erik's trance was lifted instantly, his bright eyes reignited. He scoffed at Daroga's suggestion and let his saucer clatter to the table. "Pacify me, would you? I knew you planned to lay out your demands."

"What demands?"

"Custody of my children. That is what you want, is it not?"

"Oh, Erik, hardly."

The Persian watched Erik fumble through his jacket until he produced the summons, which he laid flat on the table. He stabbed at it with jaunty finger. "Then why do you insist on mocking me this way? I am not ignorant. It hurts me, Daroga, that you would handle my child as if I am incapable of doing it myself. The girl does not like shoes! She likes to play games with people! What is so wrong with that? Is that not what _normal_ children do?"

"What is not normal, Erik, is my having to return them five cellars underground when they roam."

"Ha! Then this _is_ about _you_ , I see!" He rolled his eyes and folded the parchment under his arms. He noticed a sharp hitch in Nadir's breathing. Well, if he was trying to incite sympathy from Erik, there would be no such offer!

"There was a time, you know, when you begged me to take charge of them. When you were so certain you couldn't be a father that you thought _I_ could do better."

Ah, so it wasn't sympathy after all, but pure malice! Erik's anger turned the little skin that protruded from his mask into a sordid rouge. "Of course! We must be reminded of Daroga's heroism. 'Oh, you _must_ be with them, Erik! You are their father! You must take responsibility!' _Ha!_ "

Nadir bravely reached across the table and placed his palm on the sleeve of Erik's jacket. The calm, familiar placement of a hand upon his arm was met with a long stare at the bronzed skin. The saliva building in Erik's throat rolled around before he swallowed it nervously. "But this is what I continue to say, don't you see! It is not enough to stay with them, to raise them yourself. You must take responsibility for _their_ actions!"

Erik snorted. "I imagine you'd have me placate that bloody peacock Mme Boucher, is that right?"

Nadir shook his head. "I have taken care of that already. What I mean is that Nicholas and Astrid would not have to resort to finding amusement in other people's misery if they were to live like other children."

At Erik's aghast expression, the Persian sighed and gripped his arm only tighter. "My friend, I brought you here today to reconsider your living situation. Now, it has been over four years since you first came to me during the Commune, and I did as you asked: I kept Nicholas and Astrid here while you made your home beneath the Opera secure, for their protection. And yours."

"And what would you have me do this time?" Erik cried, leaning forward and narrowing his gaze. "First, you tell me I should stay with them. I do as you suggest, and it is still not enough for you! Staying out of sight is the best way I know how to live peacefully!"

Nadir waved his other arm, closing his eyes briefly. "I watched you fake your death. I let you take them underground so that they might know you as their father rather than as a dream from their infancy. I understand that it was the environment you needed to survive in those dark times. But for the children, this kind of life is not sustainable—"

"So do you want me to stay with them, or do you want them for yourself? _Which is it, Daroga_!"

Now it was Nadir's turn to be aghast. Erik smirked, outwardly satisfied that he had rendered this babbling Daroga momentarily speechless. Inwardly, however… He watched as the jade eyes darkened, resembling emeralds in the dusk of his eyelids.

"I have known you for too many years, Erik. In that time, I have let you twist my words and put others into my mouth, but I will no longer let you manipulate my empathy for you!"

 _Empathy?_ Was that the same thing as kindness? Erik had tried to let Nadir reach him before, let him touch him with kindness, but here he slipped out of the chair in a huff. This was not _kindness_...

Behind him, Daroga continued. "Now, I am not suggesting that they should be separated from you. I would never deprive them of knowing you, Erik, but _you_ cannot deprive them of knowing a normal life. I think you _all_ should have one. There are lovely homes on the outskirts of Paris, even the country where you could—"

"Leave my opera house? As if you could make me. As if you could make _them_!"

The Persian left the table too, gathering the cups and saucers and ringing a small bell to summon his manservant. "Ah… So we come to the heart of the matter."

Erik scoffed, folding his arms tightly across his chest. "Oh, yes. Mock me all you like. Yet look me in the face and tell me that if you had the chance to return to Persia you wouldn't take it!"

Daroga did look Erik in the face, though he made no such claims aloud. It was obvious in his eyes, however, that Nadir understood the pleasure of being where one belonged.

"I just believe it would be good for them. It would…" He gazed at the holes in the folds of Erik's scarf, the dirt stains dimming the brilliance of his burgundy coat. Defensively, Erik curled his hands around the worst of these and turned away. "It would be good for _you,_ my friend."

Darius walked in before Erik really noticed that those eyes had turned to longing and regret. He turned away to approach the servant, who Erik flashed a decrepit smile and a spidery wave of his fingers. That mealy-mouthed little servant shivered with fear, though a calming hand on his shoulder from Nadir yielded him some comfort. Annoyed that Daroga would interfere with his ongoing torment of the man, he huffed and turned away. He continued to listen.

"Bring me the items we discussed," Nadir whispered to his servant.

He didn't expect Nadir to give up so easily, even as he wondered what 'good for _you_ ' meant. He might have noticed Daroga sighing, might have seen him falter in his look of purpose toward him. But it could have been the flicker of candlelight, because now he held out his hand for Erik, _as if he would take it in agreement_. "You will think about it?"

Erik clapped his own hands together with mocking laughter. "Oh, won't it be a sight?! Two cherubim sprigs sprouted by death himself! The neighbors would be _so_ welcoming." He turned grim and mimed closing his buttonless coat, moving away to the window to stare at the gray sky. Nadir's hand fell limply. "You will not convince me of any kindness in this world, old man, so I must request that you stop this nonsense immediately. There is no place left for the likes of us — children of the damned will always live better in the bowels of hell."

He watched in the reflection of the glass as Darius re-entered with a tin can and billfold, items which the Persian took quickly, and sent him away again. "If I cannot convince you, then it will be up to time to do it for me. I will continue to be guardian to your children above ground, if only for their sakes."

Erik did not listen. The rain started to pour into the small balcony garden kept beyond the glass. Instead, he thought, ' _how matronly of Daroga to keep a garden; how nicely it frames the little lie he's living, away from death at Persia's hands_.' He was not so easily convinced by these illusions.

Erik would not be treated as he was in Persia, answering to a law greater than his own moral code. He would not come when _summoned_ again.

The tin can touched the hand curled on his forearm, startling him from his decisions, and he recoiled from its cold touch. But the Daroga pressed it further still until Erik hesitantly took it. Nadir smiled, an unbelievable sight. More manipulation, then? "Enjoy this small comfort, my friend. And please, let Astrid and Nicholas know how you care for them." He prefaced this by also offering several hundred francs tied with twine, and Erik was again aghast with this impudence.

"I will not take this, this... _charity_ ," he spat, shoving the money away. Curiously, he kept the tin, subconsciously knowing what was inside it. Nevertheless, Nadir forced the bills into Erik's breast pocket.

"There is something I have been meaning to ask you," he began conversationally, Erik feeling heavy with these new items of appeasement. He rubbed his hands over the tin box as the Persian continued. "If it is so difficult for you to imagine life among us mere _human beings_ ," he punctuated mockingly, and both their eyes narrowed into each others. "Then why did you even come back to Paris in the first place?"

Erik was bewildered and had no answer. He tried to open his mouth in some kind of retort, but he was lost at this point. Weighted down not only by those items, but what Nadir called _kindness_.

The Daroga shrugged and waved his hand just as Darius came back in to lead him to the door. Erik was handed an umbrella by the servant, and he numbly took the offering. But he could not shake the feeling, as the great oak door creaked shut behind him, that God was watching him through Daroga's eyes.

* * *

 _Why did he even come back to Paris in the first place?_

This was a distressing question that had often bounced around his thoughts, like the doll Coppelia dancing furtively on the stage of his mind trying to convince others of her human heart. In the end, he was sure it had to do with the same reason Nadir might long for Persia, though it had long forsaken him. It was times like these that he was sure the Persian was a mystic, who could always read his mind.

The rainy night cast long shadows of his body onto the pavement. The truth would always be unanswered, he knew, just as his shadow was distorted by the splashes his feet made with each passing step. He remembered that the one thing which kept him alive at all, when he came back, was when he met Charles Garnier and convinced him to add him to _l'Opéra Agence_ late in 1863.

Leave the opera? Nadir clearly did not understand how deeply that sacred building had affected him. The first time he had seen the plans for it, he felt as if a divine presence had threaded its hands through his skin and illuminated the way. The completed house had been his beacon, his siren call to arms. Once, when he'd finally given up believing in God, he imagined self-slaughter to be the best answer to his misery. It was the miraculous conception of the Opéra Garnier that gave him the will to live… Not—

The strange figure masked by the cloak of night halted in front of a toy shop. Something felt familiar to him. He had walked down this arrondissement before, in the pouring rain, standing far off from other pedestrians hurrying toward warm houses and tea kettles.

Others might call it _deja vu_ , yet Erik recalled the parallel moment perfectly. He did not have to think far back, even though it seemed as if his life was a never-ending nightmare. But nothing puts the chapters of one's story into perspective quite like a sudden clash of thunder, and the tearing down of the walls of his dreams…

* * *

 **15 August, 1867**

The pale newborn building inched forth from behind, as if revealing itself in a surreal dream. He stood in the middle of the crowd watching piece by piece of the facade come down, where eventually patrons grew bored and searched for more entertaining avenues. Yet even when it started raining on that misty, fateful day, Erik stood dutifully by his mistress.

Charles Garnier could claim her as his brain-child, but Erik felt every board and plaque of gold in his bones, every velvet curtain was the bed his soul slept in. She was the castle he imagined in the cradle, on the caravans in the Siberian wasteland, even as he grew passable palaces out of Persian soil — _she_ was a hall of dreams, not of nightmares.

Thunder clapped above, but it did not stop the boxed-in cameraman nearby flashing his bulb at the crowd and the building. In those days, Erik hid in plain sight: a younger man of thirty-six, unwithered by time. The false nose fit better then, secured by tinted black glasses which hid strange, reflective eyes. He neglected makeup on rainy, humid days, his pale skin not so different from the sweaty foreheads of others in the lane. But like them, he was relieved from the rain itself by a black umbrella and a deep grey cloak. Underneath the turbulent sky, that dark figure in the background did not seem so peculiar. He was grateful for this anonymity, for his presence that day was necessary. He could scoff and balk at will as Garnier gave a brown nosing speech to the "Empire's" prosperity.

The idea that she was being put on display, for the benefit of this "Empire", was wholly ludicrous. Billed as just another attraction in _L'Exposition Universelle_ of 1867*, the Opera House's unveiling was more than this to Erik. The marble columns were proud. The edifices in progress mocked the paltry crowd looking for amusement. This was an _awakening_ , a kind of miraculous, Godless birth.

And Erik wished deeply to be sealed inside that brick and mortar structure, or the gold and marble terraces. Instead, he was trapped by his position of admiring from afar, with his fellow architects and the gawkers who knew nothing transcendent about music. What was his beloved art but entertainment to them? It was just another opera house, after all, built to replace the one that burnt down…

What was left of the groundlings stayed long enough to see Garnier step down from the little podium positioned on _Le Place de L'Opéra_. Those spectators exited the street to find other exhibits, leaving only Garnier and four other men, who moved off to the _Rue Scribe_ side. One of these men was Erik.

This was an informal meeting of contractors to assess progress on the rest of the building. Erik's five cellars were nearly complete, so he was relaxed. Rather… he _should_ have been. There was always more work to be done, improvements to be made on his colleagues' construction. Little surprises to carve into the columns of boxes… His eyes drifted every so often to members of his crew, who were installing grating on this side of the building. A ramshackle worker lost his balance on the slippery sidewalk and knocked his head against the black iron. Erik rolled his eyes.

"No, _no!_ " he barked. "You must lift with two people, insert the bar into the other slot—"

"What do you think, Monsieur Renault? A sabbatical in celebration while the fair is going on?"

Erik waved his hand in dismissal.

"I don't think Jean-Paul could handle it, he is too distracted by your life's work, Charles!" said Jourdain.

"You're a fine one to talk!" Without missing another beat, Erik shook his umbrella, which caused a mini-shower to rain upon his colleagues. He internally laughed when Jourdain took most of the damage. "The underlevels are almost complete, and still the auditorium's framing has not been finished! You would do better to be as consumed as I."

Garnier wiped his soaked face with a kerchief, and said, "You are too serious, Jean-Paul. The workers will continue their craft while we stop to enjoy our accomplishments. Have you even _been_ to the other exhibits so far?"

Bristling, Erik checked the time on a golden pocket watch. "I had hoped to survey the structure of the lake, today…"

The other architects continued to shake their portly heads at the slender gentleman, preparing to walk away. Charles alone stayed, resting a cautious hand on Erik's leaning shoulder. "I'm going to go home to my wife, and tomorrow we hope you join us at the Japanese pavilion**. Afterwards, perhaps dinner? You could bring that lady friend of yours…"

Erik numbly nodded in agreement, a false, thin smile emerging. Appeased, Charles waved goodbye and departed along the other side of the street. He continued to watch his fumbling workers for several moments, nearly stepping closer to help them, but his colleague's words halted his measures.

Of course, there existed no "lady friend." It had seemed beneficial at the time to conjure one out of thin air, pretending to live through the same milestones as other men his age, to prevent them from digging deeper into his sordid past. They had joked when he was first contracted that he was a confirmed bachelor, and later they worried it might be something peculiar. He had overheard conversations where they questioned his authenticity, his stories of studying masonry abroad in Italy's hills of romance. The stories from that country were so true that he felt offended that they did not believe him. Italy was the only part of his life that was known to all, and yet his experiences there did not match up to the most conquering of men. Perhaps he was _un tante_ , or even worse, a spy of the rebellious groups they'd been hearing about in the papers? _***_

He touched a shaking hand to his slipping false nose. The rain had gotten to it, and it chafed his puckered skin. Instead of defending his celibacy, he had made up a woman who he thought might appease them, altering versions of their own sexual exploits to suit his new identity. It had worked so far because they knew how he valued his privacy… But this damned fair had gotten everyone talking about the changes in the modern world. The company of women was no longer such a scandalous topic in the middle classes…

Once, the distance he established between himself and others had been a comfortable cushion, one which he could lean on whenever questions became too personal. This had worked in Italy, in Russia, even in Persia. But returning to France had been a mistake if he had wanted to keep that anonymity. He couldn't seem to _lie_ like he used to when all of Paris was known for wearing its own kind of mask.

A whistling sound from the gates that were finally starting to come together. A pair of women, attempting to rush home from the cold, flew past his workers underneath their shoddy umbrellas. Their skirts kicked up and grew soaked in mud and rainwater, and hints of their calves could be seen above their boots. Erik's face flushed in both anger and embarrassment, and his pointed gaze at the crew finally got their attention.

"If I see you slacking off again, you will work until dawn tomorrow morning, understood!?"

They stood at attention, but a few continued to watch the girls disappear into the distance. Erik called his most responsible overseer to him, and pressed thirty francs into his wet palms. "See to it they excel in their task for the day. I want the gate installed and tested with the horses by sundown, and then they may go… And… give them tomorrow off so that they may visit the Exhibitions."

His employee nodded vigorously and stuffed the bills into his pockets, already beginning to shout orders and promises of relaxation. Placing his wallet back into his coat pocket, he watched silently as their work progressed. His face, still flushed from the sight of the calves of women, and the thoughts of pink bodies and laughing lips already flooding his mind, and he was uncertain of his convictions once more.

Erik finally stepped away from the only mistress that mattered — the opera house.

And yet… was it truly unthinkable to want one of flesh and bone?

* * *

 _AN: Thank you to everyone for commenting on my research! It's really nice for that to be recognized. Here are the factoids that have been starred in the last section:_

 _*The_ Exposition Universelle _was a real thing that actually happened on August 15th, 1867, with the outside of the opera actually being revealed that very day! It was fun to incorporate Charles Garnier and the rest of_ L'Opera Agence _into the story as if Erik was just one of them. Jourdain is a real name of one of the architects as well._

 _**This was about the time of the rise of Orientalism (a squicky word, but that's what they called it) in Europe, and the Japanese Pavilion was a real exhibit at this fair. We've literally been fangirling over Japan since the 19th century, guys._

 _***Note One:_ Un tante _(literally "aunt" or "auntie") was used as a derogatory term during this time to denote a homosexual. Sodomy was not illegal at this time, but it was frowned upon in his social group, and Erik's abstinence could easily raise concerns about his attraction toward women._

 _***Note Two: The rebellious spy groups referenced here are, in fact, a reference to the commune that is slowly rising to the surface, which we saw in the Prologue. Erik is technically upper middle class at this time, despite being a contractor._

 _Also, there was an easter egg in this chapter for those who have been paying attention. It has to do with Erik's name. Can you guess?_

 _Please read and review. The next chapter might include more about Priscilla, I know you guys are dying to know!_

 _-therosenpants_


	4. Maison de Pomme Rouge

*revised 4/8/16: grammar, phrasing, and some content

* * *

Erik remembered.

That was what made up the fabric of his being, memories of times when his voice was loud as it thundered across the landscape of Eurasia. He had waited for the day when fighting for survival would be worth it-oh, not physical survival. That part was easy. His bones, though apparent and gaunt through the thin yellow skin, were strong and able to withstand much torment. No, the truth was that all these years he had been fighting for the _right_ to survive.

Frankly, the image staring back at him from the shimmering glass of the toy shop had no business surviving, though it aspired to _thrive_. That was the purpose of his joining _l'Opéra Agence_ , and the reason he ventured down that certain street on that day. He should have taken the rest of the evening's events as a warning: perhaps "you will never be loved, never prosper like those around you"? Yes… for though his musical palace of dreams stood proudly in _Le Place de l'Opéra_ , he was little more than a dying candle beneath its burning, passionate flames.

What right did this enigma have to survive? His body was strong, confident. His mask was neutral. Black, like the little hair he had left, but expressionless. And yet if one were to look closer, into the eyes which flickered in the gaslight, one would find uncertainty, self-doubt, and indelibly the self-loathing which followed him wherever he went. He should be near incapable of rearing children, considering the lambasted way he raised himself. Perhaps he was right to suspect that Astrid and Nicki would be better off with Nadir… After all, they didn't really know him, could never _know_ the things he had done. But the fear of losing the only beings who earnestly wanted to be near Erik crippled him.

Something caught his eye. He hadn't been focused on the toy shop itself, merely the images he superimposed upon it. The movement from the shop-owner, however, alerted him that he had been standing there for quite some time. The little old man, with a flat round face and tiny spectacles, was tapping on his watch. Then he held up an outstretched hand, closed it, and opened it again. _Ten minutes_.

Erik stepped back, intending to finally pursue the path home. But then he finally _saw_ the window display. A beautiful train set still chugged along on the floor. Cricket mallets and balls sized for a child leaned against each other. A variety of kites hanging from the ceiling. And on a little red chair, an assortment of dolls, some quite beautiful and lifelike, others plain but charming.

Suddenly Nadir's voice echoed in his mind. _"And please, let Astrid and Nicholas know how you care for them."_

His fingers dipped into his breast pocket. He pulled out the bundle of francs and thumbed at their edges. Erik had a few more tucked away in another pocket. Not enough for a train set, or a croquet course. And where on earth would his children fly a kite?

But perhaps…

The bell above him chimed a little too loudly. The light inside, however, was thankfully dim enough that even if the shopkeeper was nervous around the mask, it wasn't as obvious as it might have been in the daylight. In fact, Erik wondered if the spectacles did any good, for the first thing he said was, " _Bonsoir, Madame_."

Erik's mouth squirmed, trying not to laugh. No, the spectacles were for show only. He obviously did not make the toys found in the shop, merely sold them. He cleared his throat and began, in an amusedly higher pitch and flighty tremor, "might I have the prices of the dolls in the window?"

The old man puttered to the display and peered so closely at the tags that Erik imagined his eyes were crossed. He thought about taking one right from under the shopkeeper's nose, easy as that would be. But despite his history of taking what he needed (and sometimes wanted), having Nadir's voice in his head seemed to keep him honest.

"I have this pretty blonde one here for 600 francs. A finely made porcelain specialty. Since you came all the way here in the rain, I will give it to you for 525!"

Erik eyed that doll in question. It was well beyond what he could afford. He could haggle farther, but frankly, he didn't think Astrid would enjoy having a doll which looked like herself. She was far too original and imaginative for that.

"No…" he continued in his woman's voice. "Show me something less extravagant. I don't want to spoil the child."

There was another doll designed to look like an 18th-century courtier, in a white powdered wig. He thought, briefly, that purchasing such a doll would be too ironic, too pathetically juvenile. The lump which was stuck in his throat at the memory of… such a person… dissipated when the shopkeeper pulled from behind it a much plainer doll, with curly, coarse red hair and green beads for eyes. He thought with amusement that the eyes would remind his daughter of Daroga.

He made a noise of approval at the redhead. "Eh, this one's a bit dusty," the shopkeeper said. "You sure you want it?"

"Yes… if it's for a good price."

The doll dangled in the older man's brittle hands. He looked closely at the tag and shrugged.

"75 sound alright?"

Later, Erik walked home with purpose. The doll was wrapped in brown paper under his arm and new violin strings for his son were in his pocket. He dreamed of buying for Nicki a new violin entirely, for the one he used now was the same violin Erik had been using for some thirty years since _he_ was a boy. It had been the only thing he had taken with him when he left his mother's house, and it had been the brunt of many beatings against the flank of a horse or thrown over his shoulder in a knapsack when he had to quickly flee his location.

Oh, how he _missed_ that violin.

He wouldn't dream of taking it from Nicki. Hearing his own son — his flesh and blood! — playing the instrument that had comforted him in his darkest days was his sole delight lately. But his own fingers had only touched the strings to check their tautness (which had suffered for some time), their tuning and to correct his son's chord progressions. But he could not play the piano or the organ quite as soulfully, with quite as much emotion, as he could the violin, and his hands longed for the familiar sway. Yes, he often dreamed of taking it back…

That little dream would have to wait. He would go tomorrow evening to the night market in Montmartre and use the rest of the money on foodstuffs and… possibly shoes. For himself and for his daughter. He already knew he would have to wrap his feet in wool when he returned home, for the rain had soaked clean through the holes to his worn socks. He sighed as he turned a corner.

His breath hitched in his throat. What a familiar sight! The pointed Tudor-style awning — he half expected to see wanton women standing under it, beckoning their next meal tickets to enter, but the place was boarded up and dark. If it hadn't been for the sign illuminated by the street lamp, _Maison de Pomme Rouge_ , he might have passed it by. But there could be no mistake: this was the place where he met Priscilla.

Why did he keep going down this same road? It was on a subconscious level, he was sure. Somehow, someway, he wanted to picture her pale face glistening in the rain, even if it was in his mind's eye. It didn't matter that it caused him great pain to think of her. That sort of thing was common when every day he saw in his children's faces the same upturn of her nose, the same haughty look in Astrid's eyes.

Maybe… Perhaps it was because it had the potential for catharsis. He could find her red, gleaming eyes again and explain to her…

 _Why._

* * *

 **1867, continued**

He did not wish to return home. It was an empty reminder that no "lady friend" existed, that he had no guests to entertain or even servants to attend to his needs. Another man might be driven insane by the loneliness. He was simply used to it.

So Erik wandered, observing the facades of the fair's pavilions but never entering, watching as happy couples, children and dogs raced away from them with glittering awe at sights they had never seen before. Returning to the rain of Paris they might be changed forever, or they might be nothing but amused for the day. That was the way of the fair and its wonders.

For Erik, the day grew long, and suddenly his recollection was blurred, and he could not remember when night had begun, or when he found himself at the steps of the brothel. He only stood there, watching as the light of the streetlamps bounced in the reflected water, when rain disrupted it and when happy patrons stepped out into it. Disgruntled ones entered, and looked at him wondering why on earth he continued to stand gawking, instead of joining them in the euphoria they were to experience.

He marveled at their willingness, their desperation that equaled his own, but by comparison, their bravery far outmatched his. He did not even know if this was the right way to go about this, only that it seemed the most necessary course of action at the time. A leather-bound hand reached into his cloak, and when no patrons were outside for the briefest moment, he dislodged the hooked nose and glasses and stuffed them where the mask had been. Erik deftly tied its silken sheen around his head without dropping his umbrella, and suddenly he was the enigma of Paris — the masked man desperately lonely enough to seek out a woman's touch, even if she _was_ a whore.

Breathing deeply, he stepped inside the dimly lit glow of the brothel, shaking off his umbrella and closing it. And just like that, he became a patron of the night.

Men and girls alike stared at him. Unaware that he had stopped breathing, he stared back as he took in the sight of young women half-clothed. A bare breast even hung from a blouse on a girl who looked like she had just been ravaged. His cheeks beginning to flame, he almost stepped back outside if it weren't for the door filling up behind him with new customers. The mysterious elephant in the room couldn't turn away now. By all accounts, this was far more frightening than trekking the Siberian desert alone or fighting off mirages in the intolerable Persian heat. He told himself these were things more terrifying than the prospect of bedding one of these girls and stepped forward with every ounce of courage he had.

An elder woman with a shock of dyed red hair appeared by his side as he approached the bar counter. Her hands maneuvered to his chest as best they could, his height overtaking her by nearly two heads. He caught her wrists and stared in amazement that she would dare touch him so willingly.

"Easy now, love. I'm just taking your frock and parasol for you, eh?" Some nearby patrons laughed at her joke, but Erik did not.

Grimacing at her high pitched, scathing voice, he gave her his umbrella but stayed her hand against taking his coak. "That will not be necessary, I'm… quite cold-blooded." The lady, with heart-shaped red lip paint and a false beauty mark on her chin, made a face that contorted these make-ups into the folds of her wrinkles.

"Oh, I _see!_ Well, there are plenty of girls here who could… warm you up." A suggestive penciled eyebrow raised, and sitting was all Erik could do to keep her traveling hand from running across his groin. The woman, who he now realized was the Madame of the place, walked away but kept an eye on him as he ordered a cheap glass of wine.

It tasted as such too, but he continued to drink it. After giving those thirty francs to his overseer, the bulk of his money would have to be saved for… But he couldn't possibly imagine what girl would approach him, and he lacked the tenacity to pluck one from her nest.

He sat there drinking without disturbance, no young woman brave enough to engage him, just as expected, until a clamor from behind shifted his intense glare at the bartender. A girl had just entered, soaked from the rain, and immediately the red woman scolded her tardiness. "Fifth time this month, Prissy!" she began, and under her breath, she added, which only Erik's deft ears could hear, "that'll cost you tonight's wages!"

Erik wouldn't have continued to watch the pair if it hadn't been for the peculiarity of the newcomer's head. She was as young as the rest of them, but her hair was as white as _une grande dame,_ and from across the room he locked on her blood red eyes. Perhaps she noticed his sharp golden hues because her mistress pointed to him, and again Erik was the only one who could understand her hushed whispers. "You take that masked fairy princess, cause he innit touching one of my pretty girls."

Erik nearly choked on his drink. So that was why no one had approached him? They were taking him for _une tante_ , just as he feared! He looked at his knuckles clenching the counter and understood completely. He should leave. He did not belong. Why had he been surprised?

But before he could even pay the bartender, the mistress had whipped her girl's coat off her shivering body and sent her scampering toward him. Almost instantly her demeanor changed, and she wrapped a hand around his stunned shoulder. He did not grab the foreign wrist this time.

" _Bonsoir, cher monsieur…"_ she whispered coquettishly, and up close her eyes were an even deeper garnet than he thought. She smiled up at him, her small, pale pink mouth devoid of makeup, in fact, her entire face colored only by kohl from a previous night smudging her eyes. The blackness made everything else stand out all the more.

" _Bonsoir,"_ he coughed, squeezing his legs together.

She took his glass of wine and swirled it, downing the rest of it in one gulp. A few red drops remained and stained her pigment-less mouth. Her hand slid down his arm as she set the glass down, taking his gloved hand and lifting him without much effort from his seat. He couldn't have stayed seated if he tried. He followed her, up a short flight of stairs and into a bedroom that reeked of brandy and sweat. Kicking the door closed, she tugged off the gloves she held, finger by finger, until his bony pale hands appeared and took her wrists gently.

"What is your name?" he whispered in a kind of stalling.

"Priscilla," she said resolutely, despite her shock evident on her face. "Nanette calls me Prissy, but I don't like it," she smacked distastefully. "I never had anyone ask me that." He noticed absentmindedly that she had the traces of an English accent. She took her wrists away and rubbed them, appalled at his cold flesh. "Come on then, what about you?"

Erik formed his mouth into the shape of an "e" but stopped himself short. "Jean…" he replied, neglecting the "Paul." He was beginning to sweat.

She rolled her eyes and made a noise of disapproval. "Sure, sure, whatever you say, _cher_." She grabbed his arm and pulled him to the bed. Taking off his cloak and tossing it in a chair, she nudged him onto the edge of the mattress and straddled his waist.

Erik's entire body immediately stiffened. She noticed and raked her hands down his chest, loosening his jacket and vest practically at the same time. He gripped the crumpled sheets in his hands.

"Do not touch the mask."

"I wasn't gonna…" She didn't look up from her ministrations. Erik's heart was bursting in his eardrums, speeding up even more when she neared his hips. "I know what it's like, bein' looked at funny."

He looked down, at the sheer fabric of her cream-colored dress, as it pooled over the thighs as white as the material. If not for the red eyes rimmed by kohl, she would be slight of an angel. "You're very beautiful," he said. He still would not touch her.

And yet she looked up, red eyes peering into gold. "What a stranger you are," she muttered and smirked as she pulled forth from his jacket the wealth of his wallet. He watched her with slack jaw as she demonstrated pulling forth one, two, three, eight large bills and pressed them into her cleavage. She slipped the wallet back into his jacket and pulled his entire top regalia off his body, leaving his chest exposed.

She seemed totally unfazed by the scars on his body as she ran her hands along it, nor the texture of his ribs showing through his skin. He was certain, however, that should she see his face she would not be so compliant.

He thanked God that his mask covered his frightened face. His lips were trembling and his brow was hot and contorted. She pressed her mouth to his neck and began her night's work. Saying anything now for Erik was out of the question.

There was no emotion so raw, so present in his stiffened bones, as _panic_.

* * *

Erik remembered.

He inserted the brass key in the lock of the children's bedroom. Swiftly and silently, he entered, leaving the door cracked to illuminate Astrid's bed.

Well, as usual, it was _both_ their bed. They continued to share their slumber as they did in the womb, no matter how Erik tried to teach them to be independent of each other. They were inevitably predisposed to synchronicity.

Even so. Erik set the unwrapped doll on Astrid's nightstand, the string on Nicki's.

He drew close to their bed and sat in the empty space where his daughter's legs curved protectively over his son's. His hands folded in his lap, Erik waited until his breathing fell in time with theirs.

It was easily the 807th time he called into question the veracity of their begetting. While their personalities slept they seemed surreally unbound by the blood flowing through his veins. It was like Erik was always sleeping adjacent, he in a nightmare, they in a dream world of angels and fairies.

No, they couldn't possibly his children. He had been lied to, taken for a fool when they were dropped into his lap. There was no one left who remembered what had happened, except for him — and look how _convincing_ they were as a family!

His eyes flitted away from their soft forms. If it was to be believed, then God had decided to punish a creature from Hell with children who looked like saints — no, they looked like _humans_ , while their father could have passed for a scarecrow. It was only fortunate that his departed mother had trained him to wear a mask even in private, for surely he would have frightened these cherubs away.

Erik's limbs felt heavy, his heart buzzing again like it had so many times before. Crippling doubt was the right set of words. Continuous, ever-present doubt.

A sharp jab at his thigh.

Erik was startled by the force of his daughter's kick. He rubbed the spot where he was sure he'd find a bruise in the morning. He heard Astrid mumbling, and a sudden snore pierced the air. He peered closer at her sleeping form and realized — face stretching brightly into a grin — that his daughter's mouth was open and a thin line of drool cascaded from lip to pillow. For the second time that night, he stifled a laugh.

Her father bent over her gently, unwrapping the scarf from his neck and turning the fabric around his finger. Using it as a kerchief, he carefully wiped up, from pillow to lip, in one smooth motion. Before he realized what he was doing, his fingers crept underneath his mask. He lifted it only a little, so that the structured fabric rested on his forehead. The buzzing beehive in his chest (his heart) guided his thin lips to the surface of her cheek, where they stayed for just a moment.

He lifted his head and sucked in a breath. She did not wake, only snored louder. Quickly, quickly…! His gaze turned to the other. Nicholas never stirred, merely keeping his thumb snug in his mouth.

Erik stretched and kissed him, too. He pulled the mask back into place immediately, adjusting the covers around their bodies and then stood up from the bedside.

 _Perhaps_ , said the liquid warmth in his heart, _fate had bid him return to Paris._

He did not look back at them when he left the room, closing the door without seeing behind him. If he had, he would have been pierced by the light of little glowing eyes.

* * *

 _AN: Nothing much happens in this chapter. It's just an excuse for fluff and backstory, but you guys have been asking for it! There's more, but the rest we are going to save for later… much later. It's time to move on, as Erik says! But will he really move on when he's tormented by his past? Find out next time!_

 _Finally got around to answering some reviews. Thanks again guys, and keep reading and reviewing!_


	5. Scenes from a Childhood

_AN: so it's been a year since I updated this fic. Surprise! I'm back with it!_

 _TW: drowning, emotional turmoil._

* * *

"From the beginning of the _Andante_ , Nicholas. Astrid — ladies do not slouch!"

Astrid slithered up along the backside of the peach-colored settee. She was fingering the doll's rosy locks when her father corrected her, and now she distastefully shoved it to the side when he turned back to the piano. Nicholas looked at her sympathetically as he raised his newly strung violin to his neck.

"I don't understand why I have to sit here when—"

"Silence!"

He hissed this phrase she knew too well. It was an urgent reminder to listen. Listen and _behave_ , as, after all, she was confined to the settee because of her delinquent behavior the previous day. Staying underground all the time made her restless, no matter how many games they played or the books they read or the stories they told. The endless wonders of the opera house above could keep her entertained, and her father knew that. But after talking to Uncle Nadir, a change was brought about in him. He also knew very well how much she _detested_ sitting still through Nicki's daily lessons, and yet this was where she sat, bare feet dangling and yellow glare etched onto his back. At that moment, she loathed him!

Astrid couldn't understand what good it would do to wait around stock still while her brother played such beautiful music. She _itched_ to dance. To move her feet to the melodies singing from Nicki's wooden voice, to clap when it became fast and urgently fun! To sway about, waif-like with her hands stretched out, welcoming soft and loving harmonies. She could think of a hundred different ways to move her body to the piece they were practicing, and yet she could only tap her feet and twiddle her thumbs.

She eyed the doll next to her as the two began to play. Oh, yes, her father had meant well by it – just as Uncle Nadir meant well by the shoes… She wanted to be plain about her displeasure with the doll, but it was Erik's expectant face upon leaving their bedroom that had sealed her mouth.

At least Nicki enjoyed his present. When they'd woken that morning to find those items on their nightstands, his face had been the one gleaming with muted delight. Astrid was captivated by Nicki's joy as Erik taught him how to restring his violin with care and precision, as well as how to tune it. "Catgut," her father had instructed them many moons ago, "is the preferred material to string instruments. Its strength can withstand even the most difficult of concertos."

And now, his bow surfed along the shiny new notes. Her brother's fingers pulsed at so great a speed she could scarcely believe that the sounds pouring out of the violin were the kind of soft, dulcet tones she heard. Father and son played together in unison and at a discord, constantly passing the melody back and forth in overlapping intervals until the instruments were tangled up in each other, winding their way into the next phrases. While she listened (her toes incessantly twirling to the tune), she imagined that this was what a field of wheat must look like, as stalks swayed in time to the wind's twists and turns. She closed her eyes, and could feel herself walking in it, touching everything that brushed against her pale skin and growing warm by envisioning the sunlight.

"Stop— you've mangled the fifth passage… And what have I told you about your feet? Spread them apart, as if a bar is separating them. That's right… Mind your fingering along the G! You'll get used to the new strings."

This was ridiculous! Astrid couldn't discern whatever it was her father spoke of in Nicki's playing, and his interrupting made her face red. And Nicki, poor Nicki, looked wholly discouraged compared to before when his face had been free and easy. But her twin was diligent in following those directions as they began again.

After about four bars, her father groaned. "No, no! You've got it all wrong!" He vaulted from his bench and snatched the violin and bow out of the boy's hands. Astrid buried her fingers underneath her legs. Her brother shrunk backward. His lowered, pained expression worried her

Erik slipped the tip of the bow underneath Nicholas's chin, willing him to look. "See, here. _This_ is how you play the double stop." He whipped it back up and to his neck, fingers placed precisely and effortlessly where her brother had apparently faltered and coaxed a smooth, clear note out of the instrument. Though his face was covered, as always, he was visibly more relaxed as that note coursed through him, a sigh issuing from his throat at nearly the same pitch. Nicki's little mouth, however, contorted so that he would not betray his displeasure through tears.

Astrid watched the exchange warily but kept her mouth shut. Her brother did not like her interfering in his lessons, as he was determined to both improve his playing and to please their father by being a diligent pupil. But it was very, _very_ difficult!

Erik, too, saw Nicki's face. He did not continue on.

Clearing his throat, her father lowered the violin and shifted the bow to the same hand, passing it back to Nicholas as he slid a flattened palm along the chest of his shirt. When the boy took it, he immediately went back to the piano and flared the material of his robe so that he would not sit upon it. Astrid saw that his right knee bobbed up and down before it reached the pedals beneath him.

"B-begin again."

Nicki looked at her with the same amount of confusion present in her eyes. They both shrugged in unison.

The third time Nicki played the chord in question, she saw it — his small hand struggled to grip tight the string closest to his shoulder as he played. Was this the "G" her father spoke of? When her father had played that note, his long and nimble fingers hadn't trembled as the small ones that held it now.

"Don't you think Nicki's violin is a little big for him, Papa?"

She spoke before thinking, only instinct and a gut feeling guiding her. Nicki rounded on her, lowering the violin and glaring with unprecedented fury.

Erik's fingers fumbled at the keys, causing an unpleasantly sharp chord at the interruption. He swiveled around and looked from the daughter who observed to the son who obeyed. His father's eyes upon him now, Nicholas drew closer from where he'd been approaching his sister, head bowed.

"Isn't that why he can't reach that string?" she continued, getting up and coming around Nicholas. The boy, eyes alight with pleading. _Leave it_ _Astrid!_ he said with them. She ignored him, instead gripping the neck of the violin herself and realizing how small both their hands were compared to its wide stem. "He has to reach so far… Can't you get him a different violin, papa? A smaller one? He'll play better if you do."

Astrid watched as her father's fist curled against the ivory keys of the piano. Now, the children could hardly read that expressionless mask for clues to its wearer's mood, but they had long since trained themselves on the art of deciphering their papa's body language. This time, he curled in his chest and ran his hands distractedly along his knees. _Disappointment._

They watched him in the moment's silence as he contemplated the suggestion. Almost as soon as she said it, Astrid knew she'd been wrong to do so. But... how was her father to know when his back was always turned as Nicki played? If Nicki wasn't going to tell him what he refused to notice, then she would make it her duty to do so, as his sister. A harsh word leveled against her would be better than seeing her brother continue to struggle silently.

They stood stock still with apprehension, the time it took him to react seeming like decades.

In reality, it was only about ten or twelve seconds. He got up from the piano, but not before slamming the cover shut, startling Nicki's little chest back. Astrid, however, was hardly fazed.

The abrupt change from disappointment to calculated rage was terrifying. His hands swallowed the air in a vice grip. He whipped his gaze from the sheet music — Beethoven, they'd been playing — to the cowering children. "You— you have no idea what you're talking about!"

He stalked toward them. Astrid spliced herself between grown up and twin, chin held high. "Why should you? You know nothing about music. Why wouldn't you let Erik teach you? You could be just as great, if not better, you _ungrateful child!_ "

Now he wretched the violin from Nicki's trembling hands. He did not take it for himself, but rather shoved it at Astrid. "Here! You play the damned thing! Come, come! Erik wishes to hear _your_ rendition of the Kreutzer Sonata!*"

Astrid sucked in a breath. She looked at Nicki, whose eyes were orbs. Her father forced her hands around the instrument then clawed at her shoulder, dragging her in front of the piano where he pointed a long, bone-like finger at the sheet music displayed.

" _From the beginning of the Andante then, please,_ _mademoiselle_!"

She looked from her father to the music. A chill ran down to her heels, grounding her to this spot. And yet, her little mouth set into a straight line, and her eyes burned a hole into the sheet music. Astrid raised the violin to her neck with defiance, positioning her shoulders just as she'd seen her family do countless times over. The bow raised, she drew it across the strings.

Out came the vilest, gut-churning sound a person could make with their own two hands. As if a cat caught hold upon the side of plaster while gravity took over. It pitched and keened, and for three good long seconds, Erik let her make that sound without flinching.

But Nicki was groaning in agony, clutching his hands to his ears and weaving his body in uneasy shapes. It was one look at him that forced Erik's hand, coming down upon the violin and stopping it once and for all. All three stood at a standstill. Nicki adjusted himself, Astrid glared up at her father…

And he— he shook his head in defeat, now slipping away to the center of the room.

Arms crossed, Erik's pace resembled the curling motion of a cat trying to find its comfortable position. He couldn't seem to find it. "No, no, Erik thought he might tell you that smaller violins do not exist," he half-whispered, more to himself than to the children. "But Astrid is too cunning, Nicki in too great of need…"

The twins looked at each other, inching closer together. They knew their father was standing at a precipice in times like these, though their young minds could not articulate what unnerved them so. They watched as he circled himself several times before stealing away to the fireplace, which had been crackling for some time now. He took a poker and stuck it into the fire, shifting the hot embers until the logs lit brighter than before.

"I have often wanted you to use something more suitable… But Erik does not have the money for such things… You must understand, it is hard to procure goods…. so precious... as a reliable violin… The one you have there, Nicholas, is a remnant from my past. It's all I can offer you."

Astrid clutched it to her chest. She looked down at the Persian rug, unsure of which step she should take. But upon looking into her brother's wide, compassionate eyes, she took his little hand and they approached their father together. Then, she raised the violin above her so that it reached his dangling arms.

"Play for us, Papa."

The violin had long belonged to Nicki and it had hardly left his hands since. Sometimes, instead of crawling into her bed at night, Nicki would cradle the glossy wood as if it was singing him to sleep. She couldn't even _remember_ the last time her father had really played it beyond its tuning. Probably since Nicholas's fingers no longer needed to be guided by hand.

It had been so long since they'd heard him play it. _Years_.

Erik looked longingly at the instrument, hand coming up to meet its curved base as though lifting the chin of a tear-streaked loved one. He opened his mouth as if to protest, and it was times like this when Astrid liked to imagine that her father was capable of crying. It seemed impossible at other junctures when he was so stern and forthright interacting with them. The tilt of his head suggested the stoicism faded when he took the violin in his hands.

Astrid came closer and gripped her brother's hand, and they sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace, waiting with wide eyes. She had always enjoyed hearing him play the piano, yes, but there was something special in watching him raise the instrument to his neck, the bow following soon after. It was not like before when he'd snatched it from Nicki in demonstration. No, in this relaxed posture, it undoubtedly said _thank you_.

They both closed their eyes as he swept them away, sheltering their hands together between them. One… two three. One… two three. _A hypnotism._

* * *

A pair of grubby, dirt-stained hands reached out from the darkness and snatched the magazine off the dressing table.

Not one dancer seemed to notice. They were too busy rubbing each other's sore feet or gossiping to care whether a six-month-old edition of _La Mode_ went missing, though the owner of the magazine would later mention a periwinkle gown to her coworker and, upon searching for it, come up empty-handed. Her friend would joke it was the work of a poor woman's ghost who knew better than to let this penniless girl dream of a china silk frock. That kind of pining was how she'd end up in the lap of a red-faced patron, she'd tell her.

Someone might have said the same thing to Astrid if she'd had a friend to correct her aspirations. One of those dusty little hands now turned the glossy pages of _La Mode_ where she hid in an alcove overlooking the dressing room through a fleur grating. Her other palm held an apple, which first she bit into, chewed, then sucked the juices before moving onto another bite. Her yellow eyes fluttered over gowns and mantles and feathered hats, while her bare feet skirted the short ceiling of the alcove as she swung them above her head.

Her father could make her sit for Nicki's lessons, but once he adjourned to his room to work, she was free again to do as she pleased. She'd begged Nicki to come with her and play in the opera, but he often neglected those offers in favor of reading by the fire at home, or, unbelievably, _converse_ with their father on all manner of subjects. He couldn't speak, but he could listen and write, and she'd rather not be around when they carried out arguments over the reasons Beethoven composed such and such sonata _this_ way when there was a better composition waiting to be found, _whatever._ It was dull to get angry over dead people.

The pink and peach bodies of dancers peeking out of white and lavender tulle were vastly more interesting scenery to daydream by. If Astrid was to get any thinking done, it would have to be in the company of bohemians, because their lives were so interesting and varied.

Warm up music drifted from different directions in the building. The dressing rooms were nicely centered to have access to the stage and practice rooms, so this alcove was the perfect spot to draw, nap, or listen to any and all conversations or melodies floating along the corridors. Astrid traced the length of a bustle with her finger along the page. This gown was "cornflower blue", whatever that meant. Its asymmetrical cushion was carried along the train by a "robin's egg" set of wide ribbons. The lady's back was turned to the viewer, but her hair, piled up and styled with all manner of flowers and beads, was the exact shade of Astrid's…

A gaggle of half-clothed dancers burst into the dressing room laughing so hard Astrid saw spittle flying from their mouths. She grinned against her apple as the light danced across her face, the girls weaving in and out of each other casting shadows in their robes and dressing gowns. One girl, running late, stripped naked on contact with her locker all the while chattering away. Astrid yawned.

"Did you see the casting notice for _The Faerie Queen_? That smarmy little Spanish fly has been bumped up to a featured role!"

"No!"

"Oh, yes! Gailhard talked her up, you know him… he's been obsessed with _Carmen_ ever since it premiered down the road in March. I think he's trying to convince Halanzier to stage it here!"**

"I doubt I shall be able to dance in it if he does…"

This little trinket of a girl, who had large eyes and a giant mole above her eyebrow, but was otherwise pleasing to look at, focused on her pointe shoe as she bent it back and forth.

"Marcie! Why do you say that?" said her friend, now dressed in a mint colored tutu and pulling her hair back. She knelt by her side.

" _Maman_ has been talking to Monsieur Auguste, and… Well, I'm to go back to working in the laundry soon. There just isn't enough money left unless someone _notices_ me."

A dark look scattered about both their brows. Astrid tilted her head and scooted closer to the grating, sucking mindlessly on the apple's juices. The girl's friend pet her shaking hands, touched her cheek and turned a curl around a finger.

" _Ma cher_ …"

"It's alright, I don't mind. I don't know if I want to spend all my time in the foyer… You see what it does to Audrey. She's started to lose her balance during rehearsal, always preoccupied. Really, I don't mind!"

Her voice was hardly happy. Her friend sealed her to her chest, and their embrace was closer than anything Astrid had seen of these dancers since she'd been spying on them. But it was hard to watch their pretty faces twist into those frowns. Whatever it was that happened in the "foyer" was not something Astrid ever wanted to experience, _that_ was for certain. She swallowed and flipped the page of her magazine.

She didn't really look down, however, only continued peeping through the grate. The friend pulled back from Marcie and cupped her face in her hands.

"No matter what happens, darling, we will _always_ be sisters. _Always_."

She kissed each of Marcie's cheeks twice and the smile which found both their faces was lovely. Astrid wiped her mouth with her wrist and stared blankly as the girls dressed more quickly when their five-minute call came from the hall. Her interest in the scene faded, her gaze turning once more to _La Mode_ , where a new set of dresses lay ready to be perused.

On the left page, a woman in a brown frock and parasol gestured toward a pair of little girls in matching dresses. Those girls held fast to each other's hands, much as Marcie and her friend's had. The caption read "Mother looks on at the sisters."

Astrid crunched on the apple when the swarm of bodies started to empty the dressing room. After the last little "rat" as they were called fell back and retrieved her forgotten ribbon, the room stood empty and a real rat scuttled up alongside her body, coming into view from underneath her propped up arm.

"Hello, rat…" Astrid sighed, flipping to the next page. She nuzzled the skin behind his ear. "Do you ever wish your family looked… different?"

Another spread upon the page, this time a little boy joining the mother and girls. The point of the image was to display the latest fashions, but she grew jealous of the children happily teasing each other, flying kites and chasing dogs.

"Of course you don't. You're a rat. You must have hundreds of siblings in the sewers…" She flipped again, smacking distastefully on a morsel of apple. "I've just got the one…" Another flipped page. The same brown frocked lady gripping tightly to her daughter's hands. This little girl, blonde and dressed in patterned blue, could grow up and be just like that woman in the cornflower gown... "Do you have a mother? Or has she been killed by the rat catcher?"

The little vermin squeaked in alarm, running around in circles. He looked up at her with red eyes and chattering teeth. "I'm just asking! Sorry…"

Astrid slapped the magazine closed. After she folded it into her bodice, she discarded the apple and unlatched the grating. She scooted over the edge and flipped down, dropping so deftly that only a slight puff of air shifted her blue skirts. "Come on, rat!" she whispered, raising her flattened palm above her so that he might jump into it. It took him several tries of scampering back and forth from the edge, but he finally leaped with abandon. She thought he was a very brave rat.

Once she'd settled him in the pocket of her skirt, she took out her blue ribbon and tied back her mass of hair. "I wonder what we can find in here today?" She surveyed the room, raking her eyes over shimmery robes draped from chairs and large vanity mirrors with various cards and notes pasted to them. She drifted to one, dragging herself up to the chair and balancing on her knees.

" _To my dear Millicent—_ " one note said in a laughably curly hand. " _May your first performance be as beautiful as these flowers! Regards, Monsieur L."_

A little pink tongue stuck out in disgust, her eyes squeezed shut. She scuttled to another vanity, this time standing on the chair so that she could examine the cards posted higher. They were mostly notes of similar encouragement, but there was also a drawing of a dancer with a regal brow and hands clasped behind her in some kind of ballet pose, she knew not what it was called. Her dress was draped with black lace over a red tulle skirt, with a frilly bodice and dark leggings.

"I don't know if I believe that story Papa tells about mother…" she said to rat. He didn't stir, but she pretended he had. "You know, where she was a _waitress_ in a dance hall. I think Papa is ashamed to admit he fell in love with a dancer, don't you?"

She posed herself like the woman on the card, grinning a toothy smile that shined back at her from the mirror. The shift was sudden, however… Upon gazing at her reflection of tattered hem and calloused knees, she relaxed into disappointment.

Astrid hopped off the chair and strolled to the wardrobe. "He doesn't seem very fond of dancing. I can't imagine him swaying his hips, much less waltzing!"

Palming the dangling handle, she pulled until the largest door opened and an entire trousseau tumbled out on top of her. Tutus, bodices, dressing gowns, wigs, and a bag of ballet shoes. She was trapped underneath them only as far as they covered her, because her laughter was free and easy. Rat squirmed inside her pocket, eventually breaking free and jumping onto the nearest gauzy skirt. His tail flicked back and forth while Astrid's arm parted fabric in a similar motion.

"These smell so gross! Like sweat and tobacco… Reminds me of Uncle Nadir."

She lost track of rat while she shoved the clothing back into the wardrobe. She tried to straighten them as best she could, but gossamer and chiffon would not cooperate. Still, the skirts looked relatively more straightened than before. The costume mistress would balk at such organized dancers! She would start to thank them until she found little black pellets scattered throughout the layers of tulle…

Astrid shrugged, turning toward the rest of the items which fell out. There were only a few bodices, which luckily rat hadn't frightened himself into, so she set them on the nearest dresser. She bundled lacy dressing gowns and shoved them into nooks and crannies of the wardrobe, the bag of ballet shoes too. She went for the wigs.

There were three — one a poofy white 18th-century pompadour, one a tightly organized copper with flowers threaded through it, and one plain blonde wig arranged in ringlets. They were too beautiful not to be… _touched_ and _worn_ … so Astrid palmed one and took it over to the nearest mirror. Taking a pearl-backed brush, she smoothed her hair close to her scalp and then tugged the white one over her hairline.

It was a rather frightening effect. She looked ghoulish, with her flickering yellow eyes and pale skin fading so naturally into the white. The wig was so large that her head dipped slightly at the weight. She couldn't imagine having to dance with it balancing precariously on her head.

Astrid threw it off, her face suddenly heating with embarrassment. It was nothing she could explain, only a sudden flood of hurt the longer she stared at that reflection.

She didn't even try the copper one, as it was pulled so tightly to the skullcap that her mass of blonde frizz would never be tame under it. And what was the point of trying the yellow wig, when she would look relatively the same? The point of all this was to feel different, wasn't it?

Still.

The girl lifted the wig with a hovering hand inside its cavern. Turning it this way, that way, ducking under it, bringing it to the mirror and comparing its shade with her own hair. The color of the pictures of wheat in her father's botany books. Or perhaps a fresh-from-the-oven baguette.

"Rat?" she called, and his little squeak answered her from the wardrobe. Little dots of excrement littered the edge of a drawer. She clucked her tongue but smiled. "Naughty… Come on, hop in!" She opened her dress pocket and he flung himself onto the fabric, slithering inside the opening with swaying tail.

She slipped out into the corridor for only a moment before she disappeared behind a wall paneling. In the dressing room, only two wigs had been left behind.

* * *

 _In the dream, he sits by a lake._

 _Knees bent, coat folded at his side. There is a soft breeze that passes against his bare cheek, shifting hair over his forehead in soft undulations. He is dressed in light-colored linens, and feels light too._

 _His eyes are closed, but he feels like he is blinking. Over and over again, the pulse of his eyelids shutters in time with the sounds which swirl through him. He smells them: roses of every color. Orange, blue, purple, red…_

 _He breathes in through his nose, that has always existed in this dream world. Out from his lungs, pushing hearts into the air, completely unguarded. The sunlight beating down on his face… He wants to see it!_

 _Eyes open. Cast on the crystal lake, rose petals floating along its surface. All are red on the blue water. Green grass staining his hands._

 _Then a woman's voice, tragic and pure. Golden light forms within him as he hears the song. Its melody is silk, spun to that same gold on a thread that courses through his veins. It shifts birds in the trees, makes waves in the lake unprompted._

 _They ripple out, slowly, then all at once—before his eyes, the lake has turned silver, and the rose petals white! He sees himself in the water, and gasps to find one so handsome, one so dignified._

 _The voice grows louder, bouncing from ear to ear as though she, too, knows the secrets of ventriloquy. He wants to turn his head to see her approach, that fae which turns lakes silver and his heart liquid gold._

 _But he is stuck in place. Immovable, a figurine upon the grass to grow moss and cracks. Only able to stare at this mesmerizing lake, and hear that gentle voice. Never to seek, nor to touch. Never to experience that which is real, that which is whole. So near, and yet so far._

 _A curse._

 _He wakes._

Erik woke to the palm of his hand.

His mask, pushed up past his forehead, his other hand flat against the book on his chest and his legs flung over the arm of the chaise lounge. He groaned, taking in waking air and cracking his neck to survey his room.

The candle on the table was nearly kaput. That must mean eight, or nine o'clock at least. What a mess.

Erik licked his lips, situating the mask back upon his face and leaning up. One of the pages of Poe had fallen onto his chest crooked, and now there was now a crease going straight through the text of "The Tell-Tale Heart." He sighed.

It plunked onto the table, and he blew out the candle, plunging the room in darkness. He ought to check on the children. He wanted to go back to the dream instead.

That was not to be, of course. Nadir's cries of _responsibility_ echoed in his mind, and though it pained him to admit it, the Persian was too correct in his suggestion.

Erik was not blind in the dark, in fact, if things were different he might live like a bat flitting in his cave. The man was incredibly adept at finding his way even in the blackest of times. He soon found his bedroom door, and as soon as it clicked open he heard with his deft ears the sprinkling of child laughter. He smiled, the events of the morning miles away.

But the house, too, was as dark as his bedroom. Not even light underneath the door his twins called theirs could be found. He stalked over to it, and it was true, they were not inside. He heard the squeak of her little mouse, rat, _whatever_ , but knew neither boy or girl where there. Erik's brows furrowed under the mask.

Tentatively, he called out. "Astrid?"

He swept over to the kitchen, hearing and seeing nothing in the dark. His hand twitched on the wall at the gas switch, about to turn it on. Senses told him, perhaps not.

"Nicholas?"

His feet tread upon the carpet, silent and purposeful. He stood and listened, closing his eyes and breathing in what sounds he could discern. There was nothing, except…

The rush of lake water.

The current was palpable, and when he opened his eyes they zeroed in on the crack in the front door. A sliver, but it was unbelievable that he missed it. He hurried to wrench it open.

Dank air smacked his skin. The lake was calming down, but something had disturbed it. Erik's fingers blindly reached inside the threshold for the little table by the door, where a matchbook and gas lamp lay for use when one returned home. He struck the match against the back of his shoe and leaned into the darkness with it.

The small light from the match illuminated everything almost immediately, but too dimly for normal eyes. The shine of the water moved across his vision, weaving back and forth like the rock of a pendulum. The little boat was still tied to the dock by the house. Erik gulped, his heart pounding.

"Nicholas? Astrid!"

He scanned the water fearfully, for a sunken body within its depths.

Then he heard it: the shimmer of his child's laughter in the underground. He blew out the match and left the house, his feet carrying him quickly across the lake's secret steps. He went into a sprint when he reached the other side, entering the labyrinth of his domain.

 _Their_ domain. A fact which he now lamented, gripped with anxiety and ready to curse himself for thinking they would be responsible, that they would be good little children! Always getting into trouble, always finding new ways torture him… Now… Now…

His breathing rattled through the tunnels, hands sometimes skipping across the stonework he had probably laid himself. He came upon his first trap, knowing the shape of brick on the ground as well as he knew the back of his hand. He dodged it, but his legs crumpled beneath him in a misstep. His hand scraped the wall, and he growled. The laughter called in response as if it heard him.

He lit another match, not trusting himself anymore. When he looked up, he caught sight of it — ratty, blonde hair fleeing into the dark. He screwed his face in determination.

Erik practically galloped in the direction of his daughter's trek. "Astrid!" he cried out, rumbling with disturbed frustration. "This is not amusing. Come back here!"

A thought, an absurd, numbing thought, wedged itself into his heart, like the pit of a fruit. He wondered how far his son had wandered, and if the girl he chased knew at all.

Chest tightening, Erik turned the corner. She disappeared behind the next one, to the left. Erik reached the fork and began to follow her. A trick of light worked upon him — he caught sight of her blonde hair to the right. When he looked back to the left, she was gone, but back to the right she stood in her blue dress, not fifty paces away, her back turned. She was barefoot as always.

"Astrid, what are you doing wandering in the dark! Where is your brother?!"

He strode toward her, but she stepped away, behind the next corner. He picked up his pace and reached out, expecting to catch her shoulder roughly and demand explanations.

She was gone when he reached the other side.

Erik huffed, loudly so that she might hear. Now he understood. It was all clearly a game, meant to test his patience and his keen ears, or his eyes. Wasn't she a clever girl? He might be impressed if he wasn't absolutely certain that these tunnels were not the place for such fancies… Not with all the work he put into their protection.

He gasped when his hand in the darkness landed upon a marker. He knew this section — they were being wrapped around back to the beginning, but up ahead was a travesty. A trap devised to kill.

She should know better than to go this way! He had shown her everything, every trap, and every magnificent plot, so that she would be terrified to come this way and instead take the path he had carved for them and them alone. That was what the steps on the lake were for. That was what the gas lamps along that path were for!

Erik ran. "Astrid!" he shouted, his heart errant. He came to the trap, and… she was not there. But he heard her laughter, farther down. In an act not unlike a brute, he tore down the mechanism which triggered the spikes from the wall, causing sparks in the darkness, metal against stone. He threw it down in disgust, his hand clenching after.

The tell-tale sounds of his child lead him on, and when he came out onto the lakeshore he saw her bellyaching by the edge, her laughter rippling the water as though it were made of fish instead of glee. He stalked toward her, slowly, hands out and ready to shake her.

"Gotcha!"

The sound of laughter ceased, but the child kept heaving as though she continued. He turned her around, and found the mouth before him laughing silently, shaking so hard that the wig upon his head shifted and fell to the ground. His son covered his mouth with a little palm, and Erik stepped back in awe. The boy was clothed in one of his daughter's shift dresses and pinafores, and without seeing those much darker eyes it was no wonder he was fooled thus.

"What are you doing, Nicholas? Where is Astri—"

A jab at his side and he lost his footing.

Erik careened into the lake, legs flailing upwards and arms covering his face as best he could. When he surfaced, he had to hold his mask in place, for fear that the children could also see as well as him in the dark.

But he heard nothing but Astrid's steady, carefree laughter as she leaned against her brother, who held his arm against his belly in similar joy. Erik growled at them, splashing water at their feet with a sharp chop to the lake.

"You are _both_ incredible. Truly, well done." He clapped as he floated, shaking his head and guffawing. "And also, truly, incredibly, _grounded_."

Their laughter died down, though Astrid wiped a sweet tear from her eye. "Aw, come on Papa. That was hilarious!"

"No, it was not!"

Nicki nodded ' _yes! it was,_ ' his sides still splitting. He bent down and picked up the wig and dangled it above his head, doing a little twirl with the dress between his thumb and forefinger. Astrid bowed low, egging him on. "But I couldn't have done it without Nicki…" she said. He began skipping across the shore. Astrid laughed again. He made it to the other side, clearly intending to skip onto the stone path underneath the surface.

" _Nicki_!"

She shrieked, for her brother had slipped from one of the steps and into the lake.

Astrid ran, and Erik swam. The latter, they both knew, Nicki could not yet do.

Erik took one savage breath. His heart pounded as he dove down, grasping the floating cloth of his son's shocked form. Even now he clasped his other hand to his mask, ever instinctively aware of the horrors of his face. How might they look underwater to his innocent child, were he to let go?

He drudged them to the surface, pulling his son close to his chest and swimming them both to where his daughter beckoned them on bended knees.

Erik hoisted Nicholas up onto the shore, then wrenched himself over him. He lay flat, gasping for air and stability, the low ceiling of the underground as black as the pinpricks in his vision were white. He coughed, and it echoed.

"Papa… Papa, he's not breathing!"

Her father scrambled up, adjusting his mask again. It was sopping wet, but he would not remove it. Not even as he pressed his forehead against his son's plump face, smacking his little cheeks to life. The boy would not open his eyes, nor his mouth. Erik opened the latter for him.

He heard his daughter's sobbing beside him. He felt her shivering. He could not feel anything himself.

Erik breathed into his son's mouth, bony and wet fingers gripping his little nose. His other hand gripped, desperately, to the limp pinafore he wore. He focused his hands to pump at his little chest, one… two three. One… two three. A hypnotism.

Nothing mattered. Absolutely nothing.

He could die to see those little brown eyes open. He could die to hear his son's raspy breathing. There would be nothing without it, absolutely nothing.

Breathing out again, into the mouth which had never, ever uttered a single word. When had he had the chance, to learn to whisper things at the very least? In between his sister's laughter, his father's rage… Who was he but a small, lifeless body on wet limestone, in an opera house his father built and would tear to the ground to see those eyes?

A gasping body. Chucking out water and pockets of hope as he curled into himself, and Erik let out the metaphorical breath of a lifetime. Astrid, too, gasped to find life coming back into her brother's form, and flung her arms around his waist just as Erik sat up in exhaustion.

"Nicki! Nicki!" she cried out, patting his back hard and showering his wet forehead with a thousand kisses. "Nicki, Nicki…" she cooed.

Erik stood numbly. His long form towered over them, a beacon of blackness within darkness itself. His cold stare never left her blonde, dry curls.

"Go into the house, Astrid. Turn on all the lamps and light the fire. _Now_."

She looked up, tears staining both golden eyes and finding no comfort in the ones flashing above. She sniffed, and after a long moment of perfect impasse between them, the little girl crept to her feet and did not slip once as she made her way across the hidden stone path under the lake.

Erik leaned back down, circling one arm under his son's knees, and the other behind his back. He, too, followed his daughter into the house with Nicholas cradled limply against his chest. The raspy, but alive breathing of the boy powered him on, a determined face towards the light.

 _I'm… sorry… Papa…_ the boy mouthed into the crook of his arm.

A rattling cough followed.

* * *

 _*The Kreutzer Sonata is an incredible piece of music for violin and piano that inspired a novel. And it's EXTREMELY difficult, especially for like, a seven-year-old. SMH, Erik._

 _**Carmen did in fact premiere down the road the very same year this chapter is set, but was considered too vulgar at the time for the National Opera stage. Bizet, the composer, died after 33 performances!_

 _**Pedro Gailhard was one of the Paris Opera's principle basses, and performed Mephistopheles in Gounod's Faust to acclaim in 1871. He would later become one of the managing directors around the time the novel is set in 1884._

 _**Hyacinthe Halanzier was the managing director at the time that this chapter is set, right before Vacourbeil, who is much more well known. If you'd like to see Vacourbeil in action, I highly recommend madamefaust's "Strange Sweet Sound" fanfiction on AO3. It also has a sprawling cast of characters, both canon and original._

 **I would really like to finish this fic! I am planning on about 50+ chapters and I would love to get some more reviews to get the steam engine rolling again! Please take the time to review, even if it's just to say "loved it!"**

 **-Rose XOXO**


End file.
